Holding on, hand grappling
Wrapping arms around air
Out of reach
Among the ashes of
Through my fingers
At fourteen minutes
before four this morning
I was blowing smoke rings
at the moon like a candle
on a big birthday cake
with my dog curled up
at my feet like a black snake
dreaming inside an old tire
rolled down a hill by a boy
of eight over and over again.
Hot steaming mug,
curling vapors teasing your nose.
Hands wrapped around the cup,
fingers interlocked soaking in the warmth.
Too hot to drink,
tiny scalding sips at first.
Wings of warmth,
spreading through your chest.
Greedily you cling to the heat,
as it fills you with satisfaction.
Sated, you finish,
clasping the mug to your breast.
Trying vainly to maintain,
the heat that slowly fades away.
But don't think for a moment that I would do it all again.
I don't want a taste of you twice.
If you wanted to, if you let me, you think I'd do it in a heartbeat, huh?
Boy, you've never been more wrong.
I'm better than this, better than your arrogance and your games.
I'm better than your audacity and egocentric ways.
I don't know why I ever pursued such a childish fool.
Grow up - not everyone wants a piece of you.
Time to tone down that attitude, little boy.