Exhale

He’s leaning against the brickwork,

looking like he’s practicing for a movie

no one is ever going to film.

He rounds his lips into a perfect O,

a silent, hollow shape,

and pushes a circle of grey into the cold.

I’ve seen that look before.

The way a person uses a trick

to buy three seconds of silence

before they have to tell you the truth.

The ring drifts, holding its edges

against the damp night air,

until it hits the rough surface of the wall

and shatters into a formless mist.

He doesn't look at me.

He just starts shaping the next one.