A spark.
Then, a fire.
Everything is set; my cigarette is lit.

Shall I write about you now?
I guess I should. Surely, I can
easily whittle you down
into a perfect metaphor on paper
but in writing this verse,
I succumb to the greatest temptation:

words

mere maps that only approximate
and cannot dictate where exactly
in my heart the sun sheds light on you
or where it fails to reveal shadowy sorrows
you fervently endure.

Did you whisper your woes to me?

In the subtlest ways, maybe,
like the way teardrops dry up on your cheek.

Now,
rising but never drifting straight in the air,
smoke mimics how I contemplate
gazing at the red ember,
half-expecting epiphanies to fall,
like ashes from my nearly spent cigarette.