We lie in the middle of the cul de sac, joint between our fingers, between our lips, smoke filling our lungs. Stay still for as long as we can. Purse our lips; out comes the smoke, so does the pain.

I hold it all in my lungs.

I hold the smoke, the anxiety, the stale cigarette polluted air between you and me. The distance between us, the mind games, the deep breath before the kiss that has never happened; the kiss that will probably never happen.

I take it all out on my lungs.

The times that you looked at me shyly, head tilted to the side, hands clasped behind your back. The times that I believed that was really you: shy, insecure. The times I let you pull me along for this rollercoaster of new feelings with no help, and no explanations.

Joints, spliffs, packs and packs of cigarettes: all for you.

For all of the cigarettes I've borrowed from you that will never be returned. For all of the joints I've smoked while talking to you, smiling to myself and ignoring the world. For all of the things you make me feel, good and bad. For all of the heartbreak I feel now. For all of the heartbreak I'll have to endure.

For how fucking stupid I feel when I say that you truly do take my breath away.