Capturing smoke requires creating contrast. Let the pandemic, a year we lost touch, be the dark background. Let your visit, and a drunk me stuck at an angle of discomfort in the passenger seat your decades-old car, be the light source. The moment the back of your hand brushed my knee accidentally as you shifted gears will be rolled up in a memory. Then I will light it up. I will breathe it in, watching as embers embrace the rolled-up moment until it starts writhing into grey ash condensing smoke splitting into delicate fingers twisting in the air:

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                                                   my intentional fondling of your hair,

                                                                                         your nape,

                                                                                   your unseen smiles as

                                                                             you drove with your eyes on

                                                                   the road and your mask still on, 

 

the stories of the year revisited in consecutive breaths pauseless almost endless.

Then I will shoot, and I will shoot fast for smoke leaves only residue. A natural ending: the moment is passing, losing form, dissolving. The moment you leave overrides what lingered when the back of your hand brushed my knee accidentally as you shifted gears. The moment has passed, lost form, dissolved. What I captured is light. What I captured is gone. What I captured is a memento of moments passed for smoke stays only in the moment. Just in the moment. Always, in the moment.