pigeons

I think to myself

‘you probably smoke too much’

and offer you a cigarette

you take it and say out loud

‘you smoke too much’

we sit on the bench

with our breaths tinted

with grey and blue

and build complicated patterns

above our heads

pigeons hide under the tables

and don’t want to carry

any long-lost messages

it starts to rain

but we have too many

limbs heads and

unfinished conversations

to join them

I light another cigarette

so we can

not-speak

for a little bit longer