No smoke without you, my fire. 

After you left, 

your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray 

and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey 

I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal 

of so much love. One cigarette 

in the non-smoker's tray. 

As the last spire 

trembles up, a sudden draught 

blows it winding into my face.

Is it smell, is it taste? 

You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips. 

Out with the light. 

Let the smoke lie back in the dark. 

Till I hear the very ash 

sigh down among the flowers of brass 

I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.

Edwin Morgan