Wisps (rewritten)

There is a meditative catharsis in this ritual.
Curling lazily into the blue-black night,
his smoke creates our veil.
It mixes with the hot, white steam
that rises from between the slats of the grated vent upon which we lean.

We talk of nothing –
we merely blow on frozen fingers
and scuff our feet at hard packed and frozen dirt,
bits of brown, deadened grass mixed among the soil,
but it is fitting –
the idle chit-chat of near strangers huddled anonymously together in the dark.

As he sucks pathetically  on the tiny white stick,
tapping away long strings of grayish ash before they can fall of their own accord,
I marvel at its power and teeter on the edge of temptation.
We perform the perfunctory dance of the college freshman
and it begins to feel comfortable.
He knows nothing of me,
bundled up
in my Izod goose-down vest,
crsip white button-down shirt,
and love-worn Levis,
hair sloppily pulled back in an attempt at sleepy sexiness,
yet he knows it all

A simple question
breaks through to the inner chamber of all that is me.
And we become instantly closer.
But we still hide –
behind the curling, twisting, questioning wisps of smoke
that disappear into the night sky,
we can keep to ourselves and pretend we are more than just imperfect.