We pulled our knees to our chests and huddled around the radiator in the living room. Passing around a seashell ashtray, we smoked loose joints and listened to Joni Mitchell's "Blue." We laughed until we drew tears and climbed up onto the roof. The chimneys and smoke stacks put off plumes, and lovers drew their bedroom curtains.
We whispered vespers to the moon and held each other with rapturous arms. On that night, when I was with you, I felt so far away from harm. You lit my Marlboro and smirked as I inhaled. As I exhaled, a nimbus of smoke sheathed your head. You kissed my cheek and laid me down on your knee.
You wrapped me up in cellophane and put me on the shelf. You wrapped me up in blankets and made a pallet on the carpet. You turned the lights off in the apartment. My head felt like a fishbowl—translucent and full of tremulous water. You climbed on top of me, and I closed my eyes.
