Ronnie’s Smoke

Smoke

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.

 

Yet still,

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.

 

Then suddenly,

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?”

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