it was my cigarette break
when i wrote down on a lipstick stained napkin
every sight of the smoker's lounge
i fought so faithfully to make out you face through the mask
of smoke you hid behind,
but since i could not tell who you were
i made up who i wanted you to be
and now i can pretend that i'm the one running the game
after my last hurrah that ended in my typical
hissy fit that a man did not worship me
(even when i ignored him and gave him my cold shoulder, i expect the world)
but it is you with the eyes that taunt
i, your cigarette,
wrapped ever so intricately between your index and middle
i- your drag
but you are the fire that boils my water
the force behind my words,
my fear,
the ruination of my reputation
for being closed off so much so
but these are too complex of thoughts for an afternoon smoke
and you seem to pick up on that, too
easing me back to my state of cold, bitter
your cough the only thing that echoes on.