The window brings cold, a faded silver.
the burning is the cigarette, the cigarettes.
the burning is in the air.
The tension is sinew stretched tight underneath
our Formica veneer of relaxed conversation and casual smiles.

The occasional ashes float ethereal from the sill
is this what they whisper to me?
The truth of what is not said?
To be this tight and hang so loose,
What it is: darting eyes and breathy smiles.
I stare at his hands as he fidgets

and they tell me what it was:
the dark and the damp and the blurry.
The first smiles and locked eyes and our escape.
The silver was faded, the window cold even then.
That one glimmer and I was stuck
the occasional ashes whispered that I had drawn my lot.
I settled in for the duration.