infinite

infinite,

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

another drag 

another smoke

another exhale

another hope 

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.