From bed to couch,
with shoulders sharing a distant brush,
you light a cigarette between sharp teeth,
your back bent so the cherry illuminates my naked knee.

That small fire spark,
of blooming blushing color,
grants me more warmth,
than you are willing to donate and let me discover.

It's smoke fumes the voiceless room,
the ashes drift delicately to embrace the floor,
I watch with eyes of green and wobbling lips,
until you complete the parting ritual.

Once you're gone I sit for a while,
mulling and chewing on my gagging thoughts,
endlessly seeking an answer for just...
one dreading question.

Why does smoke and ashes,
always linger longer around me,
than your presence?