Hallucination

Sometimes, like many other times before, you haunt me. And I almost always know what to do; like reflex.

I light a cigarette.

I imagine you emerging from the smoke. Slowly, you appear: your lips as they break out into a smile; your Egyptian eyes squinting. And then you dissipate as fast you appear.

Another puff.

I hallucinate in your memories. That Alicia Keys song. Joss Stone. The teddy bears. Your neck. Your slim body. Your butt. I try to remember if I ever sang you to sleep. Or whispered how much I love you. Or how I love to look at you when you're asleep. How you wake me in the morning with your kiss. And how I love them. How I love you. Loved you.

One more puff.

I float. That one night while strolling, you held my hands tight. One night, when you kissed me before you got off the cab. One night, when you told me in you dialect what "I love you" was.

I am dizzy from the reminders of our failure. Of my paranoia. Of our mutual cowardice. I loved you as you loved me but we're too frail against our insurmountable difference.

I put out the cigarette. Another three minutes of my life extinguished.

I die every time I remember you.