before dawn, I curl myself
into a single cigarette
and forget for a moment
that I am anything other than
lips, than smoke, than
the act of exhaling
when I write such things,
I am shifting the silences
into a semblance of meaning,
wrapping words around the hours
too late to be called night,
too early yet to be morning
and I am grateful for
the hard end of the bench
I press my back against
while I wait for something –
anything – to progress
beyond the gray plumes
that loop the air before me
© Sarah Whiteley
Feeling this one,Sarah
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🙂 Thanks, Laz!
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Oh…the poem creates such a vivid portrait of emotions.
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I’m not a smoker, but I appreciate the poetry in these lines Sarah.
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Thanks, John!
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Imagery particularly strong, Sarah. A really good tight write.
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Ah. The wee hours.
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