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I pay for cigarettes
with a plastic bag full of change
on our first night together,
and what a miracle,
she doesn’t mind at all.
I smoke one
on the short walk through
the courtyard path where
gargoyles make faces
in the grass.

She paints fish
on my apartment wall
and little reefs
so her creations
have a backdrop.
I throw empty
cans across the
the room into
the basket
just to look
in her direction.

She keeps a drawer
in my fridge full
of pears
like hoarded treasure.
The city view
looms grayscale
out the window
like the ash
I tap loose every time
the flame dims.

She cuts my flannel curtains
into a makeshift scarf,
wraps it around herself,
and poses slanting her back
against the wall.
She says that this way
she can carry my place with her.