three years ago, I sat with you in a quiet room and we wrote to each other on a scrap of paper slid across the table. I didn't then think that my words gave anything away. but when you asked me to walk with you while you smoked a cigarette and I didn't, and I didn't write back but stood up, you knew, didn't you, that's when you had me all figured out.  

Karen CygnarowiczComment