Smoke Witch Your pale skin makes satin and tulle, black, off-the-shoulder slick, sexy as you lean against the wall in the fog. Gesturing as if in water, a dark priestess, you stir the thick air into censer-ed beads of frankincense and myrrh. Later, you dance across the cobbles with the bones of our love in your arms to the grave of what we'd known. Swirling, your skirt tosses smoke aside, draws it back. Virginal white. Witch black. The emotions you always stir me to. Your sisters beckon from the mountain, looking down on the world we travel as you reach to embrace them, not me.