the ashes from your cigarettes
leaves trails as you walk.
drops of proof
that you are here and
he is here and
that you can move together seamlessly
in ways that are accepted.

but these trails are like clues;
almost insignificant
but not quite.
some people will look, they'll see,
blindly following them.
and they'll find the two of you.
find you together.

tears will burn paths
down your cheeks and
fists will make bruises on the skin
of those once loved.
vows exchanged before your eyes;
a display of faked love
supposedly more real than yours.

the ashes from your cigarette
will pile up in an ashtray;
a mountain of misery,
a singular entity
belonging just to you.
the only proof
that you are still here
but he is not.