that when i remember him
i remember little.
the things i recall:
1. the always tired look in your eyes
2. the way your cigarette rested hesitantly between your lips,
as if it knew that your breath was not it's home.
3. how comfortable you look on that bar stool,
your fingers ice skating with the condensation on your glass.
how close you seemed to slipping.
4. finding out about your young son.
this was the day i realized,
he will always know what a smokers cough is,
and he will always know the taste of beer.
he will always be kissed with the same lips that have taste nicotine and alcohol.
so i pray that you brush your teeth,
tired eyes.
and i think of your son.
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