By melissa (msj@tamu.edu)
Date: 6 March 1998

smoke

you pretend
we never stayed up nights
talking about everything, anything
nothing.
your grandmother dying from
a pack-a-day
habit
stupid bitch, you said
as you lit up your cigarette
(small blaze setting your face aglow)
and i breathed in the scent--guilty pleasure.
politics
or hometowns
or theater or books
our voices came together, drifting
hanging in the night air
in the smoke curling around us, collecting
stealing words from our mouths.
it's almost three, i said
and because we could not catch time
you grabbed just one last breath 
eyes closed, with a sigh
and then you flicked your wrist
(orange light arcing smooth across the dark)
and reached for me.
we left smoke and stories
behind us on the porch.
but you pretend you have forgotten.
oh, i don't think so.
the smoke tells you stories
tells you everything, anything
nothing.