The whiff of smoke
from the soot left behind
in your token
enkindles your memories.
The twinge, the pleasure
of remembering your face
and how your words
make life timeless.
I fear the moment when I’d
press my nose against your token
and your scent would
have faded away forever.
So I walked up to the
tobacconist for a straight
and he looked at me
with utter astonishment.
I let the shadows of the
Night hide me as I walked
away with that little stick
clenched between my fingers.
But it didn’t smell like you, yet
It smelled of tobacco
and I needed the grime
And so I thought, deep.
To light it, I’d have to smoke it
And it would become an
addiction like the one that
was starting for you.
And I needed no more
trouble than I already have
Keeping your thoughts locked
shut within Pandora’s chest.
So I threw the match-stick away
And placed the cigarette gently
within the folds of my shawl
inside a shelf, away from light.
I cannot have it, because
it does not belong with me.
But I long for it, because it
gives Me a certain meaning.
But it feels better in the hand
of another and all I can do
is allow it to break my reveries
and play with my dreams.
Soon, I’d have to shift my room
And I know the cigarette will fall
off in some unknown corner
out of my sight, and life.
But the person whom
it reminds me of,
will he share the same fate,
and depart from my memories?
Because once in many a
nights in our young lives
do we run into someone who
catches the spark in our eyes.
And every action of theirs
seems to complement
our momentary existence
in their company.
But it is forbidden,
and Him I cannot have.
And so his existence
will turn into reminiscences.
And when serendipity
knocks at my door,
I will hope to find traces of Him
in my harbinger of Love.
{blinks} 