Lauren Bacall
I lit a match and found your face—
The smoke curled slow, like fate’s embrace.
The world was hard, all steel and gin,
But softer where your eyes began.
You walked in—low light, high grace,
A whisper carved in time and space.
The silver screen could never show
The warmth beneath your winter glow.
I spoke in lines the world would keep,
But you were silence—true and deep.
A thousand dames had crossed my path,
Yet none like you—my final dream.
You taught the tough to love again,
To see the stars through city rain.
And when they fade, as all things do,
The night still smokes—
and smells of you.
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