Smoke and Water.

She tells me I am funny, leaning close to my ear with a whisper.
Her breath is warm and tickles my skin, all I want to do is rub my neck vigorously where she has been. I just don't want her to think I didn't enjoy it, like wiping ones mouth after a kiss.
I talk myself through it, focusing on how dark her eyes are, all pupil and lash.
She has a splash of freckles across her nose, I see a miniture Southern Cross on the bone of her bridge and feel homesick for a second.
I am intentive yet distracted by her.
It might be best if I just made an excuse to move out of her orbit before I burn up.
I am a pathetic satellite, I doubt whether I could move an ocean.

Perhaps it is time to hang out with the smokers, I see them through the glass, all smoke and secrets. A lost tribe convening in the chilly night, the cool and the coolest.
Their voices turning to fog under the orange streetlight.