His right hand smelt like cigarettes. His left hand smelt like Tijuana. But they both felt the same when you brushed them against my body or held my hand, soft but rough callouses at the top of your palms. I tried to look into your eyes to figure you out. I see pain but from things I cannot see. I wonder if you can see mine. I often feel like running the other way but you find a way to pull me in. I scream but you listen and soothe me like the ocean. I don’t know what I want. It changes everyday. But now I actually feel. Never thought I could fill the void. Never thought the smell of cigarettes and Tijuana could be so comforting.