You are a beacon in the dark,
with a red ember, at your fingertips.
Take another drag of your smoky romance,
and let it hang, tinged with red, at the edge of your lips.
I'd come with you anyways, just with the promise of company
through the night's solemn hours.
Would you give a name, and cease to be,
a spectre of the dark just long enough, for me to see,
the colour of your eyes?
Or will you fade behind that red beacon
and become the smoke you breathe.
So long as you wait, for the sun to wake
to leave, and I know you won't come back.
At least, not until
the quiet dark settles again.

Light another, we've got hours til morning.