the frenchman

at some point tonight, i became particularly convinced that you died for a brief moment when inhaling that cigarette. the heated air filled your lungs and, for a moment, everything your body had been birthed to do would pause. your lungs would stay clenched, and bundled, lingering in the dirty ecstasy of it all. briefly, you’d be saved from the coldness of your drunken state, and you’d fling your head back against the wall of free will. 

i am killing myself. 

“what are you even talking about?”

“listen… hear me out for just a second! and your resurrection would only conclude in wanting to do it again. that’s the irony of it all! isn’t it funny? the ciggy is enlightenment.” 

there wasn’t really anything that came after my 7th iteration of this rant, nothing beyond my arms suspended in damp city air as i acted out my role as the mad scientist, the spiritual philanthropist, the only one of us with nowhere left to go tonight. my toes edged past my ill-fit shoes and plunged themselves into polluted puddles. eagerly i waited for you to stay longer, to say one more thing, to pry one more comment out of me for your own amusement. 

“right. my uber’s 2 minutes away, how are you getting home?”

“oh, you ordered yours already?”