Smoke drifts lazily
from the end of your cigarette
in a casual upward spiral.
the clock ticks the minutes past
and a hunk of ash falls from the incense
into a gilded tray.
Your fingers brush through my hair
pausing only briefly
when the music stops,
filled by the dissonant whispers of a silenced record.
Your brows furrow
in what appears to be confusion
as though you’re slowly coming back to reality
from the distant tenderness you attempted to express.
I light another cigarette for you
and reset the record.
In return, I am rewarded
with the gentlility
of your fingers against my cheek.
And then you’re gone again.