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. 

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