Inside my mind, there was a man
who read outside and smoked cigars
and sometimes drank neat whiskey.
The warm silence between us was seldom
interrupted by a forceful cough or chuckle
sailing swiftly toward his book.
He would come in of an evening
smelling faintly of tobacco
and glaze my lips with a nicotine tingle.
He would come to bed still shower damp,
humidify my senses,
a bubble of protection
in his quiet air of danger.