A year ago today, you were lonely in a new town. I was just lonely. That day, we had our first date; our first kiss. While sitting with coffee waiting for you, my insides were swirling with dither. I had previously quit smoking but I bought a pack of 25 to settle my nerves. The air was electric, or maybe my own internal ambiance sparked the winds. As I sit here now, waiting with a fresh carton, that same breeze hazes over me still.

This time last year you said that you knew what you were doing. “Though I love him, I know what meeting with you here means.” I told you that I knew that you knew. “I knew what seeing you would do to me,” you said.

Sitting here now, with coffee and cigarettes in the very place where we shared that first kiss, all the feelings nebulously resurface. The night was cold as I sat in an aura of cozy smoke. With each drag, the sounds of a sizzling cigarette painted the autumn night sky. You did not ask but I handed you a stick wordlessly. You said that you would only smoke when you were drunk. My presence inspired you to long for a slow, burning pull. I moved to kiss you but you met me three-quarters of the way. You were intoxicating. The kiss was rushed and patient; lasting and terse. Passionate; faces pressed; noses tickling cheeks; heavy breathing. Our teeth clicked. Your lips were soft. Mine were hungry. I coaxed my tongue into your mouth. Oh so gratifying. I savoured your silk aroma, previously untainted with tobacco. You tasted pure. It was refreshing. Then you exhaled.

Sigh.

I knew what you would do to me. You said that you knew what you were doing. But as I sit here now in that same dreary zephyr, I wait for her.