A Veil of Smoke in Two Parts

Smoke. Smoky.
There's a piece of him in all my words.
Between maiden pink blushes and strawberry flushes, he's there.
Smoke. Smoky.
Eyes dark and light, grip tight, voice just right.
Smoky.

##
First Veil:

I stood under an awning pressed to the side of the observatory. Rain fell around me, lazy, soft. The boardwalk illusion glowed under a light-tight sky. Cigarette lighter flicked”a burst of warmth inside the chill. I inhaled. Leaned my head against dirty wood and watched smoke drift, my eyes straight ahead.

The leaves on the chokecherry tree were changing: some were yellow, some were brown, others were still green.

I thought how I hated fall, but it's okay through a smoke-veil.

To my left, a window. A face framed at the edge of my vision. His face. His eyes. A ghost train steamed through my belly and I was afraid to see, so I let the shape tango in the corner of my eye, just out of sight.

It felt as though the season sped up. Leaves turned in an instant, lost color, roamed in search of spring, and finally rested at my feet; a death-signal in the midst of life.

I smoked and dreamed and discovered him again, framed in the window at the edge of my vision. As I took the last puff, dragged nicotine deep into my lungs, I glanced left. A dense cloud left the red tip, danced up, circled, and filled my eyes. When I looked full onto the window, I saw myself.

There was only me, alone in the fall and shivering, through a smoky haze.

I hate fall.

##

Second Veil:

All he ever wanted was my life.

I saw him as innocent: Lying still, eyes closed, hair mussed, snoring slightly. His scent was near me, on me, inside me. I could still taste him on my lips, feel him on my hands.

I stared for a long time, a lit cigarette in my fingers, watching him sleep. That was the day, the day before the last day, the day before the end. He was like the Mona Lisa: Painted, his colors suffused and mingled Sfumato style, edges blended, soft, smoky. So smoky. Just like his eyes.

When he woke, we ate, and later that night we smoked and drank the drink of sorrow, letting the bittersweet flavor wash over our tongues, slide down our throats, and burn new holes in our bellies. But along with the sorrow, cleansing, liberating sorrow, was thankfulness and something like hope. We saw it in the other's eyes and we savored the view.

When he entered me, our eyes were locked. When he thrust, I thrust. When he came, he stared into me and I could only whisper his name and hold his eyes within mine. We lay together, tired and sleepy, but it was time to go.

The end.

The end of this phase; the start of a new one.

All he ever wanted was my life, but smoke stole me away to autumn where I remain, learning myself anew.

I am Sfumato. Lost in smoke.