Day 94: Smoke

If my sexuality was smoke, it would be from the unlit cigarette Jack Dawson holds between his teeth on the stern deck of the Titanic. (This is one of two borrowed cigarettes, the other tucked behind his ear, hair an impossible color of honey slicked alongside it.)
His tongue pokes at the cigarette’s edge, held warm between his lips, no ember tracing shapes against the black and red beaded night. This smoke, unborn, waits for a flame as well as an exhale. The match would transform, the breath would give body. The smoke is everywhere, is always, is not yet.

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