The smoke comes off you lips,
I stare intently,
Watching the swirls of white clouds create mystical stories all on their own,
My mind goes wild on endless stories and possibilities,
The foggy night matches the mysteries of your smoky face,
All is quiet and peaceful except the steadiness of your breath,
The rock I am perched on is cold- yet somewhat grounding and reliable,
My head turns upward,
The sadness of the man in the moon glancing down on us,
Creating a deep sadness inside of myself,
Trees start to sway in the crisp, newborn wind,
My body flows, using the trees for guidance,
Finally the smoke disappears,
Until all that is left is your lips,
Soft and inviting,
As if they were untouched.