They are always so impenetrable.
A dead stare at the wall.
Her drink
some half-empty prop.
And the cigarrete...
Still holding a torch
but for what?
No--
my gaze will not be met.
And she will walk out the door.
And the clues
she will leave
a certain dead end.
And the cigarette will smolder
and the smoke
will follow its trail--
to nothingness.