was not a metaphor, and I like to thinkthe weed wasn’t either, the wayit took me three monthsto smoke half an ouncebecause I had one friend left,a flower that expectedto die by this season and nowhad nowhere to grow for warmth but down,and isn’t it funnyhow even our love is governed by the coincidenceof where we are sent for warmth?isn’t it funny how I can have so much troubleraising a flame to this jointthe way my hand shivers in februaryand refuse to call it a metaphor even afterthe smoke chokes my throat andI can’t say what is cough and whatis cold anymore?
I haven’t stopped shaking since decemberwhen I realized I was going to die and there wasnothing to talk about after thatand so I don’t really have separate namesfor trembling anymore, I don’t really haveseparate names for much of anything anymoreand maybe that’s why when the cop comesit takes me ten seconds to tell himwhat they call me, but heseems to think it has more to dowith the way my car smells likea concert where people actually sing alongand I don’t mind him laughing so hardI don’t mind my loneliness up againstthis car because for thefirst time this season I amthe center of something outsidemy own head and even if it’s justa shitty court fine thatI can’t afford he has asked memy name three times and careswhat I did tonight andfor the first time since the snow fellI am shaking and know whatto call it.