The Yellow Beams showed me depths
Of her exhale that I could not see before;
It demanded I see
The harsh bluish-gray tint of the fog
That had sporadically thick layers—
Not even light could break
This dull haze.
There were swirls I only noticed
From distortions of the background—
Each so particular, I could see particles
That created the fog.
These beads rolled off Ronnie’s tongue with ease,
And tugged harshly on time for
Hours passed, but my heart was beating
In increments of minutes.
As Smoke distorted time, it stole
My sense of sound—everything was so loud,
Yet every word was a muffled blur.
My internal clock ticked
At a rapid pace called Real Time
As my vision oriented,
And just when the fresh air
Filled my lungs, my thoughts began
To throb from the crisp sound of
Laughter I was suddenly surrounded by.
Except, Ronnie wasn’t laughing.
The pieces of her that
Left with each exhale are
The colors that turned
the smoke gray—
A desperate gasp for air followed,
But these particles had already filled her lungs.
So, When we sat in silence
The only words she begged were,
“So, who wants to go another round?”