She Smoker

“Can we just go now?”
Owl-eyes starkily open, kissing death out through a cigarrete
with waves of tiredness emulating out from her aura
she did not seem tired though
mostly weary with this life
so very weary, yet so seemingly alive all at once
I'm here, I'm here, let's do this
on a frost-night amongst the shadows of a dying cricket

And you could hear those crickets now I believe
Dead crickets, dying crickets, as shadows spilling out that ciggarette
which she smokes yet still seems fresh
Little touch, no smell, and every fewer taste
In the smoke that whisps away like mountained mist on a starry night

And every night there always seems someone
someone she loves, someone she's seems to be falling for
But I don't think that's completely right. Not in its own way at the very least
cos she's cold. Stone hard and cold,
though you simply wouldn't think so to look at her
cos all you see is the wetness
the darkness of her hair, and of her eyes
and the curling smoke of her ciggarette
that she smokes just on the very tip of those dew-dropped lips

Perhaps she does, in her strange little way
perhaps she does amongst the coldness of her
amongst the coldness and the oldness, peeking out behind the shadow, of what is young and beautiful
but how do you even feel through all those layers of hardness?

I don't know
I don't know all there is about her
She seems so old in her youthfullnes – If you could choose to call it that
Sucking out the darkness from her eyes
Smoking her history, THE history, that is to be
Because how do you fall for a thing that is simply nothing?
Just toy with it and move on,
Then live and leave and love and breath out the ashy remains

Because ashes be particles, as honey is to dust
And with the starry remains in her eyes, and the shardy class that's of her soul
She's there and she watches
Smoking out jagged ashies of what's left