leaving craters, in their own style,
tiny explosions of grey, too
fast to catch.
It made me remember my birthday.
The warm bed and bare skin.
We were our own blankets.
Outside, the voice of God thundered
terrible things,
but we sat on the floor and ate pasta.
That was before everything, of course.
Now, smoke trails
have replaced the bubbles you blew.
When I am finished,
I will flick the cigarette into the rain,
and watch the sparks dissolve.
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