Art

I actually wrote this when I was about 16 years old. Likely one of the few peices I've kept so long without trashing or changing.

Curls of smoke rise deliciously
From the corners of his mouth
I imagine him twisting and turning
Becoming the smoke-filled air
A distracted tornado in
An essence of rolled tobacco
I watch him with amazement
And subdued personal interest
For he is my destiny
And stubbornly glances over
A look that is steadily intimate
I dare not falter the motion returned
For he is an art
An art to be cherished delicately.