Like an oriental cigarette,
Dark and slender and smooth
Between my fingers.
Comforting, a pillar of repose.
No smoke catching in my throat –
Calm, composed silence.
Just the taste of your filter,
Sweet on my lips.
The match, a flare in the dark,
Then the glimmering, crackling,
Like embers, burning incense
Dying down.
No thanks, I have given you up.
My fingers twirling air,
Your scent lingering
In my ‘non-smoking’ room.
© jsmorgane (2005)