Through the Cracks

I can smell the smoke through the cracks in the wall. Your smoke, I think. Along with it your laugh, which I can hear, again through the cracks, hear just as much as I can small. I wonder what's that percentage.

You're always there yet I've never seen you. That what's-his-name comes and goes, improper suiting, patterns that don't quite go, sizes that don't quite fit. But he drives a car and of that I am envious. And, of course, there's you.

Is it possible he's got you chained up somewhere? Is is possible you're held captive but still find the time to laugh? Is that why you smoke? You figure he'll never let you go, maybe this is one way to get out sooner. Six of one slow and painful, half a dozen of another.

You could cry for help. You could slam your chair on the ground. But all I get is laughter and smoke, laughter and smoke. You're happy, aren't you? You're happy with him.

I have gotten up before the sun, I have stayed awake long after it's gone. Sitting on the front porch with the paper, a coffee, a book, a dead cell phone. Waiting to see you coming or going. One glimpse, against my better judgment. It will probably all come crashing down, once that happens. Better perhaps that I have not seen you. That you only exist through the cracks. That I can only barely just make you out.