november nights
by S. Brahimi

when i see you for the first time in seven months
i’m wearing my favourite boots
they’re not made for the weather so i keep slipping across the black ice
you’re walking ahead of me
not looking back
we get to your place and immediately find ourselves on your balcony
i never wanted to go outside with you on your smoke break
it’s fucking cold and
the last time i did that
when i had a crush
i developed a nicotine addiction
because unrequited lust
makes me forget what to do with my hands
it’s not my fault my jean jacket
had perfect pack sized pockets
and that you had the extra dollar sixty five that i was missing
by the time we got to the convenience store
you laugh when i muse that smokers are great conversationalists
i don’t meet that criteria when i’m with you
i keep tripping over my sentences
you never catch me
to tell you the truth
these cigarettes taste like shit
but it’s the closest i’ll get to tasting your mouth
we talk about our childhoods and i keep it light
you don’t know that i’m a cancer survivor yet
and if my oncology team at the hospital could see me right now
they’d burn their medical degrees
the way i’m burning away all their hard work
with the embers of this cigarette
to be honest
i’m not itching for anything but you the next morning
so i wear my proper winter boots
the ones that aren’t as cute
because the black ice isn’t forgiving
i walk to the convenience store with
change— but not the kind i need
and i buy your favourite carton
king-sized
one for every time
i can’t get you off my mind
i take the first drag
and it fills my lungs in every way you couldn’t
and i still don’t know what to do with my hands
so i pick up my phone to call you
and say
your cigarettes taste
like soaked scattered autumn leaves
like an oversized sweater from a store i can’t afford
like an obscure indie track
like everything that
made me feel
i wasn’t enough

S. Brahimi is a Toronto-born poet and prose writer with a passion for exploring the nuances and intricacies of the human experience. When she isn't writing, you can find her lost in a warm cup of coffee or her own imagination.