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.