silhouettes, cigarettes

Love, like the ash in
the chimney, like the traces
his lips leave on my skin hours
after he leaves. A cigarette that makes
its way into the toilet, and me hanging loosely off the bed,
repeating my name over and over, slowly, as if reading smut
to the ceiling.

He begins to say, "Last time..."
Hesitantly, as if a fragment--and I
say, "What?" I remember the details--
the red stucco over aged bricks, the arch
of the window sills as I resembled them with the
arch of my spine, and fingertips the size of
small lizards, crawling along the driveway
as I attempted to casually
slip my way
into your
life.

You see, I
remember
perfectly.

I just want
to hear you say
it, because your voice
doesn't shake, and you've
no clue as to my middle name.
I am sure you tell it
differently.

He shakes his head,
dismissing the thoughts that
hang behind his eyelids. I can
see the silhouette, lips flushed and
fevered words, pleads, clawing their
way into my ears, and henceforth, into
my mind.

I can't make
my way past the
opaque shadows, however,
I the insistent light, and you
the persistent darkness. We
switch roles continuously,
playing out the scenes:
me, drunk off my ass,
your body pressed against
mine like a prayer. You, high,
smoke coating the room like
gossamer. Come to bed, and your
arms turning into shackles, my body
replicating a safehaven.
I understand, and like
this, we don't blame each other.

It isn't until nighttime,
a stop in a telephone box,
a call: "Could you pick me
up? I'm scared, and
I'd like to make
a confession."