Smoke
Your hair smelled like smoke.
The word keeps on reeling,
keeling, reoccurring, carrying a weight of its own. W e i g h t l e s s. Meaningless.
At first it was a feeling. The color of the room. Essence of your entire being. The sound of your voice misting across the windowpane, marred by incense stains and dust.
Quiet now, the neighbors will wake.
I go through the motion of mouthing the syllables, enjoying their dance on a tongue swollen and numb, a symphony of ghosts and raindrops driving the song home. Leaving.
The homeless man on the corner cries I love you after fading footsteps
after choking on discarded cigarettes even though he does not know the name that binds them to the earth but neither have the men that laid in my head.
Hands feed gaping mouths that nibble and cry.
I am yours for the taking, feel the body on your tongue, blood fill your chasms, sacrilege of bones and skin and wisps of hues of what should have been. Pray at the alter of sin.
It's all up in [smoke].
