Recalling first impressions,
Like the cigarette smoke languidly drifting from her lips,
Ephemeral wisps
Reflected in a pair of
Bright eyes, beckoning
To share a private exchange.
Within the surrounding chatter
Their conversation flows freely
As the hours slip by
And they are alone in the back garden,
Sipping another round,
Passing the joint between them,
His smoke now mingling with hers
And crafting an ambiance,
Wherein
There rests the possibility of building something
On this fragile foundation of a chance meeting,
Even if such expectations often prove misguided,
Leading to nothing
More substantial
Than the evaporating smoke.
Originally published in Door Is a Jar.
Image: public domain.



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