22

There has to be point, an instant when 

the direction becomes leaving. Where 

are you? The smoke pulls towards the 

wallpaper as if the flowers want it, a 

respiration that gives nothing back. 

There is a car door and a dog bark, but it 

wasn't close enough. Is condensation 

leaving or joining. I part the curtains 

with the plane of my hand, there is no 

resistance, the fabric isn't covering 

your thighs as my hand moves between the 

softness. There is no car outside and 

clouds have sealed the sky. A quick 

scratch then a pop and a paper match is 

lit. The flame grows without 

confidence, I give it a bit then inhale 

it through the tobacco. I let it fall 

wishing I hadn't replaced the carpet 

with hard wood

.