As he stood
there by the door of the run-down dollar store, I noticed
the curvature of his lips, the way that the pink faded into the
peach of his face, the stubble of carelessness grew around them
and down his neck. A cigarette hung from his mouth, billowing all
of the unsaid words that he so desperately wanted to say. I
wanted so much to tell him, honey, I know where you are on those
nights that you can't find your way, the mornings that
can't keep going, I know the impossibilities that haunt your
beautiful mind and the way that you use those damned cigarettes
as a gateway to reality. I wanted to touch his cheek and take his
hand and show him the world of beauty and reason, but his mind
was far away and he had not a clue that I existed and I had not a
clue of his stature or where he was going and I could tell that
his lips would not open to tell a soul about the nightmares he
had every night except to his treasured cigarette that hung low,
barely burning anymore, but had a captured spirit to it. I knew,
without reason or doubt, that he was destined for magical things
if not for his fxcking cigarette.
