[nov 5 2024]

she stands at the same railing, every evening.
she stands there with straightened hair and
and a cigarette between purple lips.

she never brings a lighter
but her cigarette always ends up lit

i think it's the way her
hair
falls
down
and her pale brown nails
paler than her skin.

this evening, her straight hair is wet and curling up.
her cigarette, unlit.
her eyes, burning.

"you smoke?" she eyes my lighter between us. The Fire.
her voice is like smoke.

her lips are purple. her eyes are dark, dark, dark.
she leans forward. wet hair curled into roses.

the end of her cigarette brushes my lips first.
then she moves it to the side of her mouth.

then my lighter is on and her cigarette is lit
and she looks away to take a drag.