She envied the way
He talked to the saleslady
Asking her for a pack
Trying to charm her in every way.

She loathed the way
He used to puff smoke from his mouth
Smiling at the passers-by
In front of the hallway.

She hid his ashtray
In the bottom of the top drawer
He searched for it
From corner to corner.

She went away
Carrying her suitcase
Never left a word
When she knew
He had found the ashtray.

She’s gone for a week,
But three knocks came
From the front door
He thought it was her
But it was never.

She wrote him a letter,
The mailman said
Handed it to him
Along with an urn.

She said in the letter
She breathed
Every smoke he blew
And now,
She turned into
Like that powder in gray
On the ashtray.

As the skyline alters its guise
From the lively azure
To an idle whitish hue
Which ended into
A mournful shade of gray
Like the shade in films of retros.

A frightening sound,
A roar from an angry beast echoed
After every glowing zigzagged lines
Which I thought he drew.

Louder it went
Like drum rolls
Of an ill-staged concerto,
But uglier it turned into.

Haunted, I cupped my hands on both ears
Crept under the covers
And wished it all away.