the slow art of breathing bitter

Like A Whisper of Smoky Kiss

I knew we wouldn't meet again.

Ever.

The time you brushed your fingers on my jaw

and gave me the last whisper of a kiss;

I knew it was over: a heartrending death of something.

It was blue in sorrow; its eyes were hooded in pain—

it was a dead body floating on the cold black sea.

But what felt more dangerous was you.

The way you spun everything in a second and left me daisies.

While they burnt in the sun, I was afraid.

Because a transformed you were more dangerous than the poisoned dead.

While they burned, burned, and burned—

I burnt my little thrust like a crumbled piece of paper,

and threw the ash into the river.

The things turned white, and it was all like a whisper of a smoky kiss again.