i rub the shower gel under my breasts as hot steam crawls up the glass and sweet, stinging cigarette smoke floats up through the drain;
in the hotel lobby downstairs, thin ribbons of smoke curl up to the ceiling from men drinking cocktails and popping wasabi-covered nuts onto their tongues between sips,
and three floors above them as i breathe in the smoke i can't help but think about that time we went to my place on an early-autumn morning, when you kissed me on the mattress,
inching your palms up my spine; you stood up next to the window, asked if you could light a cigarette, and i said no, you'll stink up the whole block.
maybe, if i'd let you, a girl in the shower a few floors above would've been rubbing your smoke into her skin. or maybe, if i'd let you, you would've stayed a bit longer.