Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves elliptically. The yellowed walls speak of anxieties archived by the lungful. From his fingers the snaking upward blue smoke of burning tobacco describes tumult. She has gone back into the world. Alone in their aftermath he smokes like a figure growing distant in a cinematic moment emptied of heroism. The worn sheets rope about his ankles and recall an inmate’s noose. She'd been inside. And for years. How she assumed her role in the act, face to the wall, silent as though taking a meal frankly, work-like. It was a thing they laughed about. Her parting glance was inscrutable. He drew deeply, and a ring of orange fire bloomed, briefly proclaiming love remained a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic rocking of the fan beat the hot air back onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly. The curtains billowed into the parking lot like some great tongue, wildly, mute. And under the window, in the shadowless heat, a dog, limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary