Yesterday, on the faded-blue
of your tired house,
smoke
hovered,
harrowing,
without its wings.
You dove damp into the melancholy
ember glow of the herb burn
between the tips of your fingers.
I did not exist
between that suffocating breath
for you, for myself.
Today, on the broken-tiles
of your sleeping house,
we are both in the clouds again.
Your chipped nails
all I glimpse
beneath the hot oatmeal
fog misting your face.
In that frivolous haze of steam and dreams,
I could no longer see you
like I used to.
Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash
