Whispers of love, stories untold, and the beauty of life’s journey, painted in shades of French blue
4am
we meet again
heavy eyelids, whistling sounds
thoughts of what could’ve been
the darkness is still
tones are wavering at a tempo unrecognizable
at times I’ve been able to manage
this particular morning
is unfamiliar
the comfort you’ve extended is missing
rhythms are skipped
and music we’ve made is off-key
anxious thoughts are lingering
unspoken sentences are waiting
all I have in this moment
is solitude touching me in places needed the most
4am
we meet again
The rhythm of your voice leaves me composing endless mental melodies
When we make music the notes are left gently throughout the Heather grey sheets
Your presence sits beside me, keeping me company, the kind that doesn’t expire
Enough for the center of blossoms to miss sunlight
The comfort found in your laughter is warm
A tight embrace connected at your stare
Will you stay with me?
Beyond the moonlight phasing pass the howling wind?
Thinking about more than the morning after
Love is,
Within reach.
What is sitting upon my grasp is a deep feeling of appreciation, care and concern.
Beyond my reach is an unfamiliar story that I’m not quite sure how the ending goes.
A voice calmly whispering “be still my child” is a subtle reminder that often times we may be holding the pen, spilling ink upon a clean canvas.
Upon that canvas, an artist is allowed to make mistakes, re-write, erase and begin as many times as they see fit.
Art.
A new story begins,
That is
Within reach ….
Her spirit and the rhythm of the waves shared a similar connection,
The unsettled roaring of what is perceived as perfection.
The assumptions attached along her silver lining
Doesn’t allow room for any disruption, flaw or vulnerability.
Fear
Was a natural response
When given the choice to change her narrative that came with hesitation.
The shore awaited her return,
She came creeping back to the thick shore
Like the sun
Saying goodbye to a day of serendipity.
A hot cup of chamomile and a stogie
One of her many perfect mornings to say the least
There is this deep level of intimacy she’s been yearning for
A strong, structured embrace to fall into
One that goes beyond “I see you”
One that says, I want to travel back home and feel you
Reflective of intimacy shared beyond
Physical contact and public appearance
Longing to converse with substance
Genuine care and beyond the surface level of support
A caress to the scalp
An unfamiliar love-language
But each person is fluent enough to understand the code
Collapse into a kingdom overflowing with ocean deep love,
Abundant self-awareness and reciprocity
She’s simply
Homesick
My first smoke was beautiful.
I remember vividly being connected with a sweet aroma, smooth exhale and that light to medium feel and finish I appreciate. Watching ships sail by along the Mississippi River while my fantasies expanded, bourbon neat and my Sunday best, pressed.
While living in New Orleans I began exploring different cigars, social groups & events, and an overall community of enjoyable life. I appreciate the experience I had while living in The Big Easy along with this grand introduction to the smoking lifestyle.
Smoking cigars if a form of self-care for me.
After a long day I have found beautiful peace within smoking a good stick, timeless jazz and the blank pages of my journal. Exhaling fears, doubts, and overwhelming thoughts, a good smoke is usually my long-day cure. With well-designed playlists and a great cigar recommendation, my evenings at a local cigar lounge are set.
An amazing smoke paired with a neat bourbon is similar to a steamy summer romance for me. The relationship between a good cigar and my inquiring mind, beautiful. It usually begins as a knowledge seeking endeavor and ends in a thriller review process that has left quite the impression.
I’m a poet, published author and Atlanta-based blogger. I take pride in being a lover of cigars, good-smooth bourbon, great connections, red lipstick and an amazing time. This blog has been dedicated to my extended thoughts, short poetry bursts and my cigars & cooking.
Welcome to Poetic Smoke.
Smoke Well,
Heather J.