You are a trail of smoke inside my head.
Will it condense and turn to rain
which falls to cool my smoldering heart?

You are a vision pure and innocent like death –
a secret being born out of my heart and brain,
and memories don’t live, so you never can be dead.

You are the one I seek when I feel lonely,
I smell the air for signs of she who isn’t here,
I embrace the air, hoping that it will condense.

You are a trail of smoke; innocent, frail,
my heart’s longing for what isn’t here…
A trail of smoke that can’t
and likely never shall condense.

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