The way you ash your cigarettes, smoke spinning your wildest tales, has been branded to the inside of my eyelids. The smoke remnants of things you would always say spiraling inside my head and I can read the things you never said in the negative space. I wonder if I should let out the stale smoke but it comforts me; I’m sure that’s what our bed would have smelled like. So I fling open the shutters and turn on the ceiling fan and light some incense to hope it illuminates something. But soon you’re back, smoke seeping from your curls and I can’t help but think that my mind will always be hazy but it’s not your fault.