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)
Argument:
the scene cut,
an obstacle removed.
(it shows you glimpsing
the treasure – hunted down)
Aside: a thought (at first no more)
Montage: the cup you cradled in your hands –
Shattered.
the image you saw –
Spilled.
now glittering like tears on a cobweb
running down the torn thread,
dropping into the blank of
all that might have been.
Voice-over: a child, only implied.
(Exit)
shooting, on the road again,
with slightly changed key of lighting.
© jsmorgane (2005)
big city
beating steadily
hammering your rhythm
onto mine
press my heart
under your power
squeeze out self
to nourish your
great
© jsmorgane
