PERSON Poem: Second-Hand Smoke, by Locklyn Wilchynski

You’d always let me stomp out your cigarettes
or toss them out the window on the highway
while you’d tell me your empty regrets and
whisper plans to skip town by Friday.

You’d put one behind my ear to hold back my hair
and tell me you bought the Reds just because
they matched my lips and the way I look when I swear.

You’d smoke one every night before bed,
and ask if I’d ever wanna let you go
I smiled and told you I’d rather be dead.

You’d leave the buds on the balcony
where we kissed for the very first time.
I’d sit out there whenever the hour turned blue
until I felt your hand in mine, intertwined.

You’d blow smoke to the stars when I wasn’t around,
and stay up for hours on the phone.
We’d talk until we were both in tears
and realize we’ve never felt so known.

You’d pull me in whenever you finished the last one.
I felt the softness of your hands and told you to go,
but you only held me tighter and asked me to wait for the sun.

You’d smell like cigarettes in the mornings,
and count my breaths while sleeping,
You’d always try to convince me that
maybe I’m something worth keeping.