When we lived together,
you always slammed the door.
Even when you came home late,
you’d turn the key,
grab the knob and let that heavy,
solid wood door I loved so much
crash back into its frame.

When you were here,
you’d never crack the window open
when you smoked your cigarettes.
You’d sit right next to it, though,
in the chair you found
on your way to the west coast.
You’d stare out at the concrete world,
let the smoke waft all through the apartment.
You let it stay there,
to remind me of you
when you were gone again.

When you were still here,
you used to sleep beside me.
You could only sleep with the fan on,
but even then, you’d kick off the covers.
You could never lie still.
It used to keep me up,
watching you mumble and toss and turn.

When I walk past that window
and inhale that sweet, stale smell of cigarettes,
sometimes I crack open the latch
and push it wide open with all my strength.
I rush around to every window,
open them all and hope that’s enough.

Other times I sit down in the chair,
the one you brought home for me,
and look out at the concrete world.
I breathe in that sweet smell like it’s perfume.
I sigh, and wonder;
What was out there for you
that was better than me?