cigarette smoke curtains
a wrinkled corner of an eye
and every glance shadows
yet another word of good-bye.
thin fingers shred the curtain
to unveil stains of blue
like the ink that
fathers ghosts of the future
across a clueless white page;
i've gone with the sun
drawn by words unspoken from afar
just to cry
over the picture of pear juice
running down your lips.