A perfect smoke

Still missing the dope.

As you can see in its shape.

And while I enjoyed it, I was considering you.

Your eyes working overtime to not see me.

Your ears closing as I made sounds.

I could regret our state of non-affair.

Dancing, but disfigured.

Easy.

Age differentiating.

Pain levels not aligned.

Too young to have seen as much.

And too old to not long.

Too distant for direct conversation.

“Mom, who’s that mad man dancing in the street there?”

“Someone I once met and danced with in wild dreams.”

As one does.

And I still smoke that perfect cigarette.