I only miss smoking cigarettes
every now and then;
a whimsical yearning
to let something go
when it’s beyond my control.
Silvery ribbons across skin,
rippled silk
somewhere in the moonlight.
Something to go with
rum on the rocks,
a nostalgic burn beneath neon lights,
on the patio of my favourite bar.
July fireworks electrified the sky,
exploding
in your drunken eyes.
I don’t remember when we
started drinking straight
from the bottle.
Maybe it was 3 a.m.,
and we were laughing too hard
behind the veil of smoke.
And we were so damn sure
of ourselves then.
Scintillating dreams on an indigo sky,
wine stains on lace,
a cigarette between fingers,
contemplating all the ways
to leave this town.
But pulling the trigger
is so damn hard
when you don’t know
where else in the world to go.
I heard someone say
“Well, you can go anywhere.”
That’s the problem.
For to drift like smoke outside the bar
like some vagrant runaway,
might enliven this wild heart,
make a gypsy blossom to life,
but where does she let it all go?
Where does she
let all this go?
I can stand still
on a downtown street
yet stillness of night doesn’t feel the same,
and that old bar made its final last call
a summer or two ago.
Everything seems to end for good,
watching you with crestfallen eyes,
suffocated with settling.
Every now and then I’d like to
dance drunk down the street
at 4 a.m.,
dusted with drops of dawn.
Sometimes I’d even like to
light a cigarette only to taste
how it mixes with rum on your lips.
Maybe I’d even take a chance
on a new bar.
And maybe somewhere in the night
we’d find ourselves laughing too hard
behind a veil of smoke.
But where does the gypsy
let it all go?
Where does she
let all this go?
