In quiet and alone and take of cigar, its acrid taste of remain in each draw’s after, he wrote to her. In commune and exchange entirely of mind he believed that she would see.
He was crazy in that way, believing in the power of intentions and energies and that signs and spirit offered into nothing, somehow, reached their aim.
He imagined her, too, in daylight’s end looking on sky and the last and changing of the light. Fuchsia turned magenta then deepened to red-wine burgundy under shadow tops of blueberry flesh.
What did she think? What did she muse? Was she in merriment of its make?
If she was there, he’d ask.
Not being, he wrote. He offered thoughts away into the vast, seeming empty, with a faith and hope in the last of light that, somehow, she would find; somehow, she would see—answer in a sign.
He took another draw, smoke and acrid taste again; but his thoughts were sweet (as he chose to believe) in overpower of taste and a bitter.
He thought of her in chair, curled by window view, looking out onto daylight’s die as message found and she received—somehow, some way.
A smile becoming over outward stare; hands’ slow draw to her ends of hair, combing as she mused.
