Quiet Smoke

You call my name as you light a cigarette. I’m in another room. The scent of your intentions reaches me before your words do. Your air is bitter and earthy, like an old war veteran with lost limbs who tells tales of lost lives. You’re lost too. You say my name again. This time heat drifts in to collect me. A dry breath of weariness curls around my neck. It feels like you. The man you say you were. His air lingers around me like a silent apprentice. You said you drowned him three years ago, when you met me. Yet he is here. You’ve resurrected him. A current of sadness slips between my fingers. You yell my name. I try to respond but he won’t let me. He needs to tell his story. I breathe him in. My pores drink him in. My eyes cloud with his memories. He leads me to his childhood home. We walk in together. A man walks out in the same moment. A man with eyes of brown leather. They’re just like yours. Your eyes are mirrors of two generations. Yet yours glint with sunlight. This man walks away and he leaves the wind behind him. The air is his only presence. It cools my skin which has dampened with his tears. My eyes clear with knowing. I know you better in this quiet smoke. You yell my name. “I’m here.” That’s all you need to know.