fingers ache from  cold, from looming
in  shadow
cast by an invisible moon tucked behind the clouds.
Your throat burns with memories and visions
embodied by the fiery wand between
your teeth.

Women sway to an inaudible music,
and swirls of smoke become pools
where the fish jump
without fear of the fisherman.

Inhaling the portraits of lonely widows
and rotted men who have loved only bottles.
Perhaps they will find  peace
in  shriveling livers.

With a cleansing exhale into the vacant darknss,
jubilant creatures spin in mists of grey and white,
twirling round your spinning head,
mouths agape in mid-song
and hooves tapping together
to the same melody as the maidens.

You hear no music, only the groan of an old house to your back
where you have come from seeking refuge in the hospitality
of your sweet nicotine lips.
Waving away these spirits of smoke
vanishing behind those sullen walls,
leaving only a still-burning stub
smoldering lonesome

in ******
snow

It's 3 a.m
and all I can think about
is if I have already seen you
for the last time.