Because I like the Ben Folds song.

Smoke

The way a cigarette calls forth
the wet from porcelain:
Heat draws its opposite.

The way I look to see you
blink, break that connection. My gaze
then downward slips
to ponder your lips a and how
difficult to begin
a kiss uninvited.

For now, there are other
exchanges. Stories told through
other people, the dance of look
and look away,
aaaaaaaaaaa this poem
drawing a nod, a smile, silence. Com
miseration--exactly what we want
least from each other.

A younger me once wrote
to another: Lives change, but
stories remain the same.
And I mean this too: a What
is it that you're trying to tell me?

for now our stories too, have changed.

As if this tiny table between us--
the hands on it occupied, the toes
under it almost touching--is an excuse
to pretend a longer history
between us: a love, commitment
perhaps, that I might find this long-
winding attempt
aaaaaaaaaaaa reasonable.

A wet spot now on the ashtray, droplets
gather round the smoldering tip.
Inappropriate responses like smoke
swirling, then
aaaaaaaaaa flowing out of our mouths.