5948 magazine street.
we crossed one way, and then the other, but i kept my eyes on the sidewalk, on my feet.
i knew the way from the parking space by heart, i didn't need to look up.
i sat outside our old apartment, and i began to mumble to myself as philosopher wandered about and took pictures because this is the only grave i have to visit right now. that gray door, that one step we called a stoop, and those crooked numbers ... those are the only headstone i know.
i remember, whenever it would storm, we would grab our cigarettes and sit on the bottom stair with the door to the street open, and boy and i would watch the water rise up over the sidewalk as the rain poured down and smoke rose up around us.
i touched the door knob, and i took several deep breaths before giving in to that lump in my throat.
i sat there, at that doorstep, and i smoked a cigarette because this is the only grave i know.
my fingers traced over where it used to have "48" stuck onto the wood, and i ran my hand through my hair.
as i started to cry, i knew that things were going to be different after this. now, i really know he's gone.
