she can smell her
in unscented cigarette ash.
gatherings
of it at the corners of coffee tables.
she can feel her fingers in the ice
of winds lacing their
december garlands
all along the shops
lining new york streets.
her body
is woven like glasswork
between the apartment windows
and
the palms of her hands are pressed into
the headboard.
the soles of her feet, burned into
the hardwood floor.
in the grey light
the color of cigarette smoke
she can see her.
dancing lazily with her own thoughts,
a shadowboxer.
barefoot, lean and ruthless,
unless at rest.
which she always was
when she had her nicotine
and a lover.
