Smoky, hazy

smoky room.

Smoke from incense

"made in India".

Smoke from fresh lies burning through my dialogue.

David smoking outside on a break,

Nicole smoking while driving to Pataskala,

Yaeji smoking during a walk though

my neighborhood

begging me to let her smoke

begging for smoke

smoke to smother young lungs.

Smoke from chimneys;

how I wish we had a fireplace.

Acrid smoke from burnt sugar

clinging to the oven.

Smokin' hot men,

smokin' hot women,

Zach saying Vanessa Hudgens is smokin'' hot

back in eighth grade,

and jealousy burned me up,

smoke drifting out from my ears.

Nonexistant smoke,

smoke that never happened

because I threw Dad's cigarettes

over the balcony;

partially to spite him

partially to spite the hot, smoking city.

Smoke from the burned-black towel

in the microwave,

a result of ten-year-old vanity.

Smoke from my hair

crisping under a straightner,

a result of lifelong vanity.

Wispy smoke curls

drifting from the tip of an insence stick.

Smoke fills my little room quickly,

it blurs the light

it blurs reality.

Inhale, exhale

perfumed

soapy

slippery sweet smoke.