No interlude, but I’ll write a poem about you.

Do you still smoke

cigarettes when you’re 

drunk? I remember

your fingers—long, 

white, almost skeletal

in the glow of halogen

lights, in the anticipation 

of Stockholm nights. 

You held cigarettes 

the way children 

hold hymnals, the way 

lovers hold whispers,

and glances, and

secrets. Your fingers

danced across my skin, 

tracing constellations 

in my night sky.

You showed me

pinpricks of light

in the darkness

and I showed you

the universe. Black.

Infinite and expanding

in every direction. 

Tell me, baby, do you

still smoke cigarettes 

when you’re drunk? 

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