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I somehow don't have a word or

words to say what I just could not

say at any point even when I whispered:

"I love you" 

and 

"goodnight."

And I called your name up and down

and up the stairs again because I felt lucky, 
I felt like you might just hear me through your 
exhale of cigarette smoke. I wondered, often, 
if your breath would smell sweeter had you 
been a little kinder or had smoked

a little less.  But I learned that kindness is 

neither inhaled or exhaled: it was in the lightness of

your hand on my shoulder and the circles

it made on my troubled belly.