We became close.
Close in proximity and in nature.

I wanted to be where he was,
and he was always right around the corner.
Every day at 4 p.m. sharp,
he'd buy his smokes from the convenience store across the street from my place.

I could see him walk in,
and when he walked out,
he’d see me standing at my window,
watching him.

He’d light up right outside the store
and smoke the whole thing,
right down to the end,
without breaking eye contact.

And I'd watch him, breathing heavy.
With every inhale and exhale he took,
I’d pretend I was his cigarette.
Clasped between his two bent fingers.
Pinched and put into place between his lips.
Giving him relief,
because I was his fix.

This was a story I told myself every day,
as we stalked each other with our eyes,
with nothing but a street, a glass window, and some distance between us.

When he finished his smoke, he flicked it on the ground.
And before he walked off,
he’d wave.

It was never a goodbye wave; it was a wave that said we were here—
that this exchange happened.

The wave was our witness.
So I waved back.

And he disappeared around the corner.
And that was that.