Scripted Story

The air is smoky from the cigarette,

held between his index and middle fingers.

His lips kiss the filter end of the burning pipe,

his eyes staring at a room with an open window,

where a family dines with fun and laughter.

A little girl on a chair by the window’s side

waves her hand and says hello to the person,

standing on the balcony,

filling his lungs with tar and his mind with memories.

The cold air from the past chills his thoughts

and replaces the little girl with his lover.

Suddenly, a play starts—

acts of interesting talks, togetherness, and an instant silence.

He tries to hide them all,

drawing a curtain of smoke,

blown from the burning substance.

If only those passing hellos, once from a stranger,

had ended with smiles 

instead of never-meeting goodbyes. 

Perhaps the play was scripted all along.

Despite the ocean flooding along his eyelids, 

he wishes -

for everything of her in his mind,  

to gift it to her, so she could see them herself

and realize they could still be together.