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