The Pattern of Smoke

Just me and a friend
with no one else,
the evening is perfect
to enjoy by myself.
I relax in a chair
on the porch all for me
as I bask in the peace
and revel in the glory.
I breathe deeply in
as my exhale releases
a puff that floats
and seemingly freezes.
The smoke is frozen
in time, in the air
as all else follows
and we just sit there.
I admire the moment,
the tranquility that rises
in a second that now
does nothing but surprises.
The cloud that encompasses
the ideal in which I sit
holds such a feeling
that's absence would cause me to quit.
The absence would hold
an ironic emptiness
that would overwhelm
each and every sense,
but thankfully that
hollowness has yet
to show its face
and rear its head.
So now with nothing to worry
about a frame thawing
this moment of perfection
far beyond appalling
will come to an end,
a finale in completion
that will still be enjoyed
past both its vividness and depletion.