Bygone


It was that night when I started smoking, now that I think about it.

It was cold, too cold for spring.

Your leather jacket that I huddled into smelled of metal zippers and smoke and you. Sweet. You were warm. I couldn't resist.

You lit up for me between palepink lips and I took the fag between my fingers, trying not to embarass myself and hold it the wrong way. I didn't cough or choke. I trembled into your shoulder and you slung an arm around me.

We were sat down in some field in the middle of nowhere that I had driven to, my body shaking and your hand over mine on the gearshift, supportive. I think I was crying, or maybe everything was just blurry from the rain. I can't remember. I was driving your car, your old Ford '85, maroon red and rusted, missing the rear bumper. You had pulled out an musty blanket full of holes from the trunk and we sat down together in the mud. You watched the stars. I watched the movements of your chest.

"I want to disappear," I said.

"I know," you said.

I felt the scars on your forearms from razorblades and broken bottles. Some were fresh scrapes barely scabbed over, bloodred, some, years old, palewhite.

"I'm sorry I need you," I said.

"You don't need me," you said. Tears on your torn leather jacket, dripdropdrip.

"Yes I do," I said.

"I'm no good for you," you said, flicking your thumb over a lighter, then spark flame touch puff.

"Show me," I murmured as you pushed grey smoke out of your lungs.

"You'll just get addicted."

"I already am."

Dry skin, leather, smoke, bitten nails and pins from bands that no one but you and me in this town knew. Falling ashes from the end of my cigarette as I let the buzz wash over me and get rid me of my worries. I liked how it tasted. It reminded me of you and the strings on your busted bass guitar.

You let me kiss you as I shivered from the cold and the burntout cigarette slipped from my fingers, growing cold in the wet grass and dead leaves.



(c) Kate Finneran 2004

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