In the crease of her fingers
Is where she held me.
A history of thought,
Filtered.
Flaked off at the end.
It was her fingers I felt most comfortable.
That I could truly do anything.
Stuck between her middle and pointer finger.
Held high, upright.
Unprecedented in eclipse.
She'd press me to her lips.
Resuscitated.
Flaked at the tip.
Scatter ash
Where I felt most alive.
Nestled in the bend of her fingers.
My building without escape.
She'd set fire to my head.
& like a mad man I'd lay still.
This smoke, a place I wanted to be.
Our bad habit persisting
Day in and day out.
The only fact perhaps we truly have.
I'd unravel in loss of responsibility,
The nook of her fingers,
A universal sense of comfort.
Withered down.
Tossed to the wind.
Our history made short,
Recognizing that we were doomed from the start.
Smoking in front of the no smoking sign,
A habit we can't put down
