She plucks feathers from the tiny hole
in her comforter, handing them
to my trembling hands as if she were
giving me pockets of conversation.

I crumble the feathers with my fingers,
feeling the softness and the lightness.
She gets up and ambles on to
the bathroom, as I drop the feathers.

When she is blow-drying her gorgeous
black hair, I step outside the house
and onto the patio to smoke
a cigarette, knowing she will not approve.

I sip on black coffee, hoping my breath
will reek a little less. After I finish
I come back inside and she walks
into the room, telling me she smells the smoke.

I feel embarrassed. I look down
at the carpet counting all the black
and brown spots, then I come across
the feathers, so white and immaculate.

I move closer to her and run my fingers
through her hair, feeling the knots and
the curls, leaning forward to kiss her lips,
thinking that it will rectify the situation.

She pushes me away and asks "Are you
trying to get cancer?" She crosses her arms
and huffs, narrowing her brown eyes
at me as if I were a suspect in a crime.

I put my hands on top of my head
and try my best not to shrug, but I
cannot help feeling indifferent. And
that feeling makes me think that I'm careless.

She shakes her head and taking a step,
she scoops the feathers from the carpet
and shoves them back into the comforter.
Glancing back at me she asks, "Why do you hurt yourself?"

And I do not have an answer for her.