Smoking Room


Smoking glass


A flick of ash. The taste of jealousy

Across your lips. Between your fingertip,

And your fingertip, is poised a gesture

Of silence. Intimate, no more besotted: still,

The sofa, an afternoon, an hour to kill.

Plates left later to clean and a cigarette

Between any motion. There is nothing stranger

Than when you look away. I almost see

It too, stare back at you, casting your eyes

Like a net through ever-unforgetting air.


The best conversations are often had through smoke. As are some of the most difficult silences. 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s