You came back from the bar
with our drinks and a fat cigar,
grinning as if you'd found lost treasure.
"Look at what they sell here."
You bit the end off and told me
animatedly how some Cuban guy
handrolled it, "probably used his
own spit and everything"...
You blew perfect big O's
and said you loved the taste
of cigar smoke in your mouth.
"Try it," you said. "You can
smoke all that you want."
I held it between my fingers,
forgetting about the spit comment
as you warned me not to inhale.
"I already did," I replied.
I inhaled again and asked,
"Why doesn't any smoke
come out of my mouth?"
You laughed and told me
I must be doing it wrong,
but it tasted good and
reminded me of you,
so every once in a while,
I took a wrongful drag.
You told me that sometime
we'd have to soak cigars
in chocolate licqeur.
"Better than sex," you
whispered in my ear
and the night was ours,
delicious with possibilities.
