The thin cigarette lines the lips
of what could be a thin strain of sorrow.
Love inhaled, and exhaled again -
in a wisp of smoke,
that someone promised would last forever.
Rising, gently curving through,
nudging its way to the rarer -
to the unknown higher -
I seem to see your form in its delicate
                            intricacy,
and I caress the smoke with my fingers -
feeling you curl over and snake around each,
as they etch patterns in the air -
a wave at the tips of the nails -
and you rise yet higher, and higher -
and soon you are gone,
leaving your aroma behind.