nuour

not a poem just messing around

The man gave off an aura. Smoke. Not to say he was unpleasant to be near. Just that his face was sharp and bold to give one a sense of a deep oak. Of a dark and full flavored brandy. Of a Martini lacking in vermouth, zested with with a lime peel that has touched fire. He was New York without the neon. You looked at him and could see stoic street lights ignoring their reflection in rain covered streets. His voice was thunder and his face was the fog the following morning. The man was smoke.