When the tobacco smoke evacuated my lungs, I sought out the reason for it sinking to the ground rather than being whipped out in elegant swirls around my omniscient figure in the vacant parking lot. The lanky streetlights create mood. Your smile hid your aggravation. You're trying to be alluring,.... trying to be tempting,.... trying to be cute.... Your presentation is flawless. And you asked me for a cigarette with a sly smile and big, big eyes. And I feel lost in your presence, my words are distant, (I'm a shy girl.) "Need a light too ?" But here's the difference: the line between you and me; I won't be getting any sleep tonight. I'll spend hours, lying awake on my black mattress, reading into our encounter. I'll rewind and replay and redisect endlessly. I will remember your facial expressions down to the second, the silkiness of your words, the forced ease of your voice. I'll play out situations in my head in which we run into each other again, the soft edges of my friendly smile; I have no idea who you are, but thats alright, if I'm supposed to, then I will. Our encounter, it ended for a reason, we left as strangers, just as we arrived. But those words, my missing lucky cigarette, they're there, all I have to do is decide what to make of them and apply it.