Your lips taste
of gin, the feel of
chipped teacups
and taste of
broken biscuits

but you are not
that seventy-something
really, despite the
paper-like skin that shows
the blue train tracks
feeding your heart

I am hoping that it
cracks, like a
chemical burn,
I want to hear
the skin splitting,
spitting out the
lemon juice of
your jeers

your eyes are
my mirror, black
and loveless

stinging, still
with lemon
pips