finch

the air conditioning chills my hands. i draw my fingers to my mouth to warm them with my breath and smell the smoke from my last cigarette-dirty, stale, sweet. i pull the jewelry in my lip in between my teeth and bite down, scanning the history of my education in my mind, searching for the right words--and not finding them. i stretch my arms over my head and lean over the back of my chair. maybe, i think as my back cracks, if i can just get away they'll come to me, the words. i walk outside, barefoot, on the grass, but it's been a dry summer and my soles can tell. i search for shapes in the clouds above my head and light another cigarette. later, i'll want to smell it on my hands.