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.