cupcakesandmuffins27

He's smoking again. I am forced to remind myself that I shouldn't give a damn. I resolutely pretend I don't notice, even as his cigarette expels long silvery-grey strands into the frigid January air. He hasn't seen me yet. The distance between us yawns forward, a wordless expanse. It could be a heartbeat away or an entire ocean, but it is neither, just a slushy street corner in a quiet town. It's the place I grew up, a little community where the only thing to do is drugs and nobody has ambition beyond tonight's rest. I used to think it was beautiful. The gratified park benches told me stories; the Sharpie on the bridges let me know of ever