There is a woman who sits outside on a warm spring night, smoking. The air around her, beside her, so still that she feels no movement of it against her skin, and the sky so thick with clouds that not a star shines through the patch alloted her, though it glows pink, still, in the west from the going down.
Her face glows pale in the electric light.
"O," she says in smoke, lips and tongue pushing it skyward.
She flicks.
Ash falls.
Cars pass.
The air, the temperature of her skin.
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3 comments:
(scrambling to sit down on the ground before the pink smears completely out of the west) dude, you got a light?
we can practice exhaling dollar bills.
Elegant, as always:):):):)
This is great info to know.
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