clinging to the sky

She pulls on the cigarette
and her mind is alive -
like hearing two songs at once
and it's just noise
that you can't drown out
because there's too much being said
and not enough being said
in this smoke filled room
where no one wants to listen.

Next to her,
he tightens the c(h)ords,
in a search for music and veins -
reaches for her arm
pushing her bra strap under her shirt -
a picture of reserve in the making
before he injects, (twice)
breathes in her smoke
and lets go
as god enters his mind
leaving his tongue heavy.

They are a portrait,
"Affection, Dying"
labeled, and marked for storage
no one would want them in their home
they adorn walls of crumbling buildings,
condemned.

There is barely enough want here
to keep them on this moth-coloured couch,
with the wires peering out
from under frayed cloth,
pressing itself into skin, bruising
into jaundiced kisses
to match the hollow beneath their eyes.

She knows
no one will love her like this,
with abandonment and rage
and naked youth that begs for nothing more
than her touch
or gaze
or whatever fragments she might (s)pill his way.
And he knows
desire will always keep her
in the pockets hidden beneath his clothing.

And they pretend
they will grow old together,
slipping past fences,
through gaping holes
and barbed wire that threatens to pierce,
if he does not hold the (t)rust in his hands
as she crawls on skinned knees, palms
into fields of poppies and lust.

Lying under God's blanket,
he comes down -
into her arms
and they are still, quiet,
in this, their abundance of space
without walls to nail themselves to

as they hang themselves
from the stars.