See-through billowing clouds, ground level between your feet and heart, exhaled out through nostrils not wasting the taste, but savoring it; So that every Sunday evening will remind you of sweet tobacco. It clouds your third eye. The TV blares white and blue light from the living room. Entrenched in darkness as the sun goes down, making your pupils wide; Certain as the day becomes night. A painting obscured by a sheet; We don't look that way anymore. The smoke marries itself to the furniture and carpet, so that even when he is long gone he is actually still here. There is a DNA fabric pattern that has mutated and becomes its own self in relation to this man, who will now always been present, smoking, silent. Cross-legged, perfect posture, dress pulled over the knees. Secure and barefoot behind the coffee table. In 18 years time the air replicates itself to a downtown club with blue floodlights and jazz tunes and cigarettes weeping idly by, wishing the buzzed, nauseating Gravitron ride will all be over soon. Fake pearls around her neck, plastic rubies on her wrist.
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