She left nothing behind
but a three-quarters-smoked
cigarette, menthol.
For a moment the
spiraling column of smoke
reminded him of her:
wispy, thin,
dead, deadly.
The smear of pastel
on the filter
clashed with the
primary colors
of the smouldering tip,
fiery, menacing.
He picked it up
from the crystal ashtray,
hers, expensive,
and took a deep draw
from it.
Outside the night
descended, darker
than he remembered
and he wondered
if it would ever end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
really different from the usual stuff here... i could almost hear the saxophone sensually blaring in the background. really cool...