An early memory. Ribbons
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.
You, slender as a reed,
fraught with a need
to be more than you
can be.
Laughter brandished
like a sword. Smoke curls
against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.
Your skin hangs
on your skull,
yellow teeth and pale
bones beat a dying rhythm.
I look into your eyes
and hear them pleading.
You look at mine.
Can you hear them scream?
How long must we watch
as you eat yourself
from within? How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?
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