smoking in LA
Shristuti Srirapu
i smoke cigarettes on the space
between the third and fourth floor
of the parking lot. i keep the company of girls
who are almost as real as the wisps of ash that
chase the tops of palm trees. they remind me
nothing lasts very long. embers die slower
than sparks and all hearts eventually stop.
they tell me that cigarettes will blacken my
lungs. i tell them the city is on fire. wishing to
spend another day warm-faced in downtown
i ask another one on a date. she will always smile
before postponing. staring at the mandarin-bleeding
sky i am sick knowing post-mortem is the only
time i will feel secure in this city. i wish to be blushing
but i am turning just as red from racking coughs.
i will say it is the smoke in LA. not the smoking.
girls do not hold my hands in the streets. tripping
into another bar i muster my best city center sleaze
and hold my lighter up as a question. vices drip
like water in the darker parts of town. it is never
really night in this part of LA, except i cannot see the
faces of those who hold my waist, who say i am
on fire. i wonder if i have dropped my cigarette and
i am blooming into flames, nursing anger into
desire. i wonder if the city desires warmth.
i will walk back home with someone who
does not love the city’s modernist discard and its
ashes of easy negligence the way i do. there
are times i will smoke on the third floor of the
parking lot alone, wondering how we fizzled so fast.
i snuff the memory of cinder from my burning
cigarette, knowing that buildings do not smoke
but smoulder. perhaps individualism will save us
when LA turns to inferno, blazing and alone.
all i wanted was to feel the fire. my cigarette dies.
fingers inches away from flame, i watch us burn.
Shristuti Srirapu is an engineering student at USC from Bangalore, India. She loves self-expression, museums, swimming and talking over copious amounts of coffee.
