Thoughts unfurl like smoke.

You blew a circle of it,
your face lay in the centre
encircled by the grey, billowing fumes.
Beautiful
ever-changing,
twirling plumes.

We accept our fates blindly
like mice.
Sipping ***** from a jar
that once held
Ragu.
A Frisbee as an ashtray
I’m dancing stupidly with you
Ol’ detective Gribble
who dribbles down the phone
and whispers: “sweet nothings”
in my ear,
I hear.