Lights of Smoke

This tear was once a walk across a bridge
that led to a destination only the
bedraggled moon could determine.

The walk was once a kiss,
a touch of digits in lights of smoke,
an exchange of words in a room lit by nothings

that resembled chipped stalactites.
The kiss was once a chat
between blue eyes and brown,

a seemingly meaningless exchange
in a world brimming with naivete.
This home was once a particle

separated from its colleagues and classmates
weeping for its mother solidarity.
This life was once a shape unlike any other,

a form that refused to conform,
that yearned for no more diatribes or platitudes
in a time of lighter hearts.