Humphrey Bogart
The smoke curls slow between his teeth,
A line—sharp as a blade—hangs in the air.
He says nothing, but the silence speaks,
Rough velvet in a world that dares.
His eyes—two tired city streets,
Lit only by regret and rain.
He wore truth like a wrinkled suit,
And kissed as if to ease the pain.
I watched him burn beneath the light,
A man made wholly out of night.
Yet in his gaze, a flicker—true—
Of something lost, I almost knew.
He was the dream I never quite outgrew.
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