Poem: years-months-lifetimes

and here we go:

and she wondered if the awkward silence
would simply smash the pale few inches
of wet space between them,
physically separated by sand and
remnants of yesterday's existences.
both of them had stopped speaking miles
(years/months/lifetimes)
ago, but their bodies were angry
with sharp angles and movements --
quick, asp-like whips of heads,
hair tangled against the hollow of a shoulder,
elbows jutting out at unjaunty angles --
so the conversation and aggressiveness built
between them like a gathering wave.

when she finally spoke again,
she asked him for a cigarette.
he did not look toward her when he replied
(the cobalt vanity of his eyes
were drawn intoxicatingly toward the sea)
that he hadn't touched a cigarette
after the day she died.
to this, an uneven smile etched onto her lips
and she said that it was probably for the best
because she knew from experience
that there were never any ash trays in heaven