As I smoke

As I toke my cigarette I look for animals in the lacing smoke. Or better yet, your lovely face, your face might hide in that long forgotten place. Passing me and not seeing.

I drink flavorless water to get rid of that horrid taste.

I look down at my feet and see my white and pink striped socks showing themselves over the brim of my low ups. I also notice how nice the white of my socks looks agents the tanned olive skin of my ankle.

From my ankle my eyes move over the lines of my legs. From the curves of my calf to the straight line of my shin and from my shin to my knee, and thigh. From my thigh to my full hips and from there to my slightly tucked waist. And from waist to breasts. I know if I were to stand I would not be able to see my feet because of them. Above the line of my breasts is my collarbones, long and thin in the way they are. As I look from my collarbones to my arms I see how muscular they have become from all the manual labor I have been participating in. My shoulders and triceps are stronger than they have ever been. All the better to hold you to me. My forearms are lean and feminine yet strong and unyielding.

Seeing myself this way I think of how unimaginably teenaged I must look to the outside world. With my long side braided hair, dark denim cut-offs that show off my tan skin, graffiti Converse and over sized black Joey Ramone t-shirt. I would die before someone mistook me for a common high-schooler. 

I feel the smoke soaking into the lining of my lungs. It feels the way it feels when your words flow into my mind. Every letter falling into place lining up and making a sentence as wise and deep and sexy as they have ever been.

But as I take one of the last puffs I feel the heat of the smoke move through the filter and hit my lips. Not only is it time to put out the joint, it is also time to stop dueling on useless things. That is, my body won't be totally useless,  not to you.