sounds too few a number
for the times over
and the skies under
which I have thought her most beautiful.
i try to count them with each breath from my cigarette,
each exhale into the chilly los angeles night,
the smoke from my lungs.
the warmth of my breath,
like the waning of her voice
and her still fullness in my memory,
floating on and up through the branches
that still tonight,
the countless clouds
floating above los angeles,
hang as reminders of just how beautiful she is,
and remind her that i
am still counting.