I watch her.
Sitting on a bench.
Slowly finger-coiling a strand of her hair.
Slant-eyes looking way too deep in the sky,
as if locating an exoplanet
A stack of ash tilting from the edge of her cigarette.
She doesn’t smoke but likes to light
So, she can watch it choke and die on its own fumes.
Her face glows in moonlight
as she delicately chews her lips
with such patience
as if she had two lifetimes.
One to live.
Another to waste.
I observe the shape of her head –
round and small
and I fall in a loop
in deep desires to open it wide
does she hold.