Riffing off Nighthawks

Space stills. Atmosphere coagulates. Objects conjure. 

The hats hang in their densities. The windows refrain from inviting. The doors remain perpetual possibilities, obscured and exhausted. 

They have known each other. But what is knowing but inopportune misglances? One understands more in a glimpse than hours of mutuality. Time deceives; knowledge, in its safe familiarity, obscures understanding. 

She appears too much. He’d much prefer her being a cigarette. Safely in his pocket; there whenever he wants. Sits nimbly between his fingers, and thrown away just as well. Her sweet fume loitering sans the need to maintain, since it was born to be consumed. Pleasure in, of, and for itself; an immediacy that requires no explanation, away from the messy complications endemic in advanced apes. 

But a cigarette cannot be a person. If she was, the pleasure, without the Monday distresses and Sunday scream-offs, wouldn’t be half what it’s now. Thus he volunteers as a fly in this midnight amber, satisfied in the stillness of time, where the cigarette is lit but not consumed, where there’s not as much enjoyment, but also less pain. True, it is straining to not destroy, but at least the fume lingers and does not fade. 

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