When we met, hers were clasped
with a red barrette. Mine were in my eyes.
Skid marks watched us from the street
and a plastic bag kept aloft by the traffic
floated between us, waiting by a faded crosswalk.

We went outside for a smoke one day, and
she asked me if I have a favourite lung.
When I asked why, she told me to send
all the tar and formaldehyde to the lung I like less
so that I might always have one.

I smiled and said, “the left.”
She laughed, dropping ashes on her shoe.