By Amberdawn Collier

It is customary,

or so the cliché goes,

to smoke after sex.

My lover is definitely in the habit

of doing so.

I could almost be jealous of the way he

craves it,

if it weren’t so beautiful to watch,

like viewing an artsy

erotic film.

I’m afraid I don’t meet the proper level of political correctness.

(After all, smoking is bad.)

But to see him reach out,

for the colorful pack resting on the floor

amid the pool of out clothes

while still deftly caressing me,

Ah,

it makes me catch my breath.

The lid of the lighter is flipped,

quickly,

fluidly.

The flame appears,

signaling the beginning of this affair.

Contacting, it shrivels and burns.

His generous lips suck in

the way they do the moment before he comes,

A slight shudder before the “Oh God!”

My voyeuristic soul watches

with hunger

He leans back,

strokes my hair,

runs his hands like falling water

down my back

and I want

him.

Again.