You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

**** you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

Woke up to you with
one hand round my thighs and
one hand round a warm cigarette.
Wisps of smoke rolled playfully
out your dishevelled, handsome grin;
makin’ a break for it through
ivory jail-cell-bar teeth.
And as you ashed into your empty coffee cup,
black, three shots,
I bent my body over yours,
hips hovering bouyantly,
hands crowning your face
and I kissed that smoky grin of yours
I kissed it with every muscle in my lips
and with every breath in my lungs,
'til your tar-stained teeth shined
like lost pearls in a rough sea.

Keys in the front door.
Sun reluctantly disappears
and your fingers mesh with mine,
with another hand I lit a warm cigarette.
you kiss me as I empty out a glass, and heave my crystal lungs.
Your hands on my hips, taking a drag.
They all say:
if this is love then I don’t want none,
if this is love then you two got it right.
And the moon had peeped its head through our window
moon-beams singin’ us to sleep
amid a haze of smoke, and wine,
and passion that could’a melted the whole **** city.
And our bodies had intertwined,
with one hand we held eachother close, and the other
we wrapped around
a warm cigarette