Warning Labels

Renae Collins

 

You lit a cigarette and pressed it against your lips. Inhale. I placed my hand on the inside of your knee as your fingertips traced delicate circles on my forearm. Exhale. Your other hand was steady on the steering wheel, your cigarette rested half-burned between your knuckles. You raised it back to your lips. Inhale. I longed to be your cigarette. Exhale. Your eyes shifted from the road to me every few moments, but my eyes never left you. Inhale. Our conversation was quiet over the radio. Exhale. You said the games we played were innocent, we always found each other again. Our paths had the same destination.

You sucked in one last drag as you pulled into the driveway and tossed the bud into my grass. Your cigarette was gone, our unnecessarily long car ride was over, and our flame was snuffed out. The warmth of my hand had grown cold from your thigh, but I can still feel your fingertips burning into my skin.

If our final destination was together, then I suppose you became lost somewhere down the road. You woke and found yourself lying next to another. You pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Inhale.