I hear traffic, I hear movement, but I really listen just to hear your voice.
My father is a smoker;
I think my mother is his cigarette.
His hand shakes whenever he says he’ll quit.
It’s always short lived.
His hand shakes whenever he draws her close.
We both know when she is near he dispels mist,
dispels the illusion that his lungs are not already fill with her,
then he inhales.
I am not a smoker, I am a writer.
You are my notebook,
and what is a writer without these things?
What is a writer without inspiration?
A thought without purpose?
So my hands shake too.