No tears,
This time.
None.
I am
not ready.
Numb.

Another cigarette
blurring my eyes, soaking up the
memory of your tongue, mine,
circling; spirals of blue-gray smoke rising
from somewhere, yet untouched -- but somehow
old, now.

This can't be?
Only the flailing, 'Glade Scents' candle and
the ashtray filling up, laid before me on the
table here by the wall.
I light another cigarette, and choke out a laugh --
hearing yours, instead. Christ!

It seems as if I am in the wrong film,
sittng here, an unfamiliar character
in this too familiar setting.
I pick up the candle and try to gulp up
all its scent, letting the vanilla soothe my ache
for the taste of you.

None of it makes any sense.
I miss you. I stroke an old pillow and lean
my cheek against it, feeling your face, seeing us
alone in our room, happy just to fall asleep like this.
Like this? But you are gone and I can't pretend again --
like this.

Numb?
No more.
This time?
This time,
I am about
to fall.