Light Runes
Sketches In Smoke
Something about the taste of a cigarette in the fall is wholesome. A scent of frost slips into the edge of the air - even though it hasn’t found its way to the windows in the morning quite yet - and makes the smoke smell clean. Part of me wants the girl on the bench to look up from her book, and part of me wants to just watch her read. She was sketching a minute ago, trying to hold on forever to some corner of a day that doesn’t feel real to begin with. Maybe I found my way into the pencil lines, and some copy of me is wedged back into her bag along with studies of leaves or the children playing tag. I wonder where it will end up, whether it will get put in a notebook or a folder that gets put on a shelf and lingers for years without being looked at moved, from a dorm to one apartment after another to a house to boxes in storage that never quite get cleaned up. We might both be dead before anyone sees this thing again, dissipated like the smoke.
Something about the taste of a cigarette in the fall is wholesome. A scent of frost slips into the edge of the air - even though it hasn’t found its way to the windows in the morning quite yet - and makes the smoke smell clean. Part of me wants the girl on the bench to look up from her book, and part of me wants to just watch her read. She was sketching a minute ago, trying to hold on forever to some corner of a day that doesn’t feel real to begin with. Maybe I found my way into the pencil lines, and some copy of me is wedged back into her bag along with studies of leaves or the children playing tag. I wonder where it will end up, whether it will get put in a notebook or a folder that gets put on a shelf and lingers for years without being looked at moved, from a dorm to one apartment after another to a house to boxes in storage that never quite get cleaned up. We might both be dead before anyone sees this thing again, dissipated like the smoke.
