Slow Smoke

Slow Smoke
Lit the match.
Watched her breathe.
Smoke curled up
like a sleeve
sliding off
sunburned skin—
that is how
the want gets in.

Slow smoke, slow hands,
slow wreck of the best-laid plans.
She moves through me inch by inch.
Every exhale
makes me flinch.

Dim room. Low light.
Her mouth, a bite
she has not taken yet—
patience dressed as a threat.

Half smile. Wet lip.
Fingertip on my hip—
pressure soft as a bruise,
the sweetest way
to lose.

Close now.
Skin hums.
Whatever comes,
whatever comes.