and i was unpacking all my shit into my new room
i found an empty pack of bond street blues hidden in the back of the closet
owned by the girl who lived here before me.
i didn't throw them out, just left them there.
i'm now about the same age as she was.
two years after i moved in, i painted the walls green
covering up her pink ones which had years of little paintings and murals all over it
and i got rid of the closet
and the empty pack of smokes went with it.
maybe it's just the nicotine and the warm sun on my face but every time i smoke out my window and i see the dents in the tin roof below me from where she had climbed out to sit and smoke
i feel so strongly grounded.
