smoke curls through the window

this is the circle
this is the going-around
old leaves and green wood
on a cold spring night

this is how I hear you
breathing
a stolen cigarette
the silence of lifetimes

I can smell the smoke

this is the circle
this is the going-around
the part I keep holds me down

the world fits between my
fingertips smooth and open
this is how I see you
this is the circle

leaving is always
black and white

 

 

 

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