I watch them pull on the clove,
lips squeezing the black cylinder like a kiss
before inhaling the insides of each puff.
The slender stick elongating her fingers,
highlighting her bone-colored skin
rubbing the reddened tips with a subfuscous substance
Made lighter when he plucks it from her,
his hands twice the size, the motion practiced
like they had been sharing cigarettes for a century.
I remain in the corner,
studying the approximation the hood of her coat
makes to the jut of his ribs
now pressing and squeezing together, like their lips,
the clove crushed on the ground,