The squealing echo of rubber tires
Rubbing tired streets
Are heard
As I listen
To the blurred whispers
Before they disappear
Into the fogged morning-sky mirror.
Icy breezes sift through barren branches
To my lips;
I exhale, billowing smoke through my smile
Blowing ashes into
The embered-eyed recollections
Of warmer, vanilla evenings.
My lips grin,
Soldered to a seductive ceramic rim.
My hand fused the heat;
The soulless, seasoned, frosty dawn
Bound to the dwindling hour.

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