Future Self Redux

A most bizarre event.
The reading, the meeting
The gaze from across a lattice work
Of metal and fire.
Does she know what I see in her eyes?
Her voice inflicted with inflection
I can’t discern
But it sounds like whiskey tastes.
And she wouldn’t cough
If she didn’t smoke like I do --
Professing, proclaiming it social nuisance
As she lights the fresh one
In her red-tinged-blue lips
With the butt of the one she hasn’t
Yet finished.
Does she know what I sense in her gaze?
Dark swimming orbs
Surrounded by shadow that’s almost not there
Above, finely arched brows.
Below, a smear of lipstick
Smudged in the divot of her cupids’ bow.
Do I do that with my water, too?
As she grips my hand
In a too-soon fare-well,
Her salutation more sincere than imagined,
She gets one last good look
And sees --
Within her smoke-whiskey eyes
What I see
Is me