Her life was smoke—suffocating any air
that fought to hold certain sight as readily
as eyes starve for immobilizing sequence.

In her frequency, she could eclipse the whole
of your sun and your moon and soon enough
there could be nothing.

Nothing except the hollow hours cast
in disintegrating lilacs, that scorched
simple skin across each tired ending.

Her life was smoke—but at times
there hummed from her, amidst the rolling haze,
slipping chords, not yet callused.

In her spreading, the occupancy of her transparency
dissipated: and behind her eyes, was the quiver
of her flame's decay.

Decay was a ritual she consumed willfully. Even as
her wick sought its end, she would still wander
into the kitchen, seeking empty kisses of *****.

Her life was smoke—spent hovering above heads
that had suffused themselves in gasoline, wondering
which decade it was, she had left them.