Cool

by Mel Waldman

We used to think it was cool to smoke. It made me masculine and you, feminine. It soothed me after dark and fed your gentle being at the midnight hour. We danced all night and in between we smoked and drank, too, and tasted the surreal sensuality of the seductive night. Later, we made love and after our intimate dance of union, we smoked again and listened to jazz.

Puff, puff, puff, we swallowed the smoke; puff, puff, puff, we drank addictive toxins, inhaling Death (dark Thanatos), exhaling Life (sweet Eros), embracing Madness and the thrill of self-destruction.

We thought we were cool, omnipotent, immortal — two young lovers seeking something we couldn’t find. But Death craved you, my beloved (and rejected me for now), and beckoned you to enter the swirling, smoky circle of deception, where you danced a strange, macabre dance. You whirled around and around until you were breathless.

And Death was the cool, fiery noose of smoke that stole your final breath and took you away from me forever.