you write vignettes out of the ashes of your cigarettes

and your body burns up like a building

the looks you give me leave paper cuts on my flesh

and your slightest glance will skin my knees

like a withering flower i will die in february air

smothered by the lingering smoke of unwritten prose

when words rip from your chest like new year’s explosions

i kiss your lips and tell you to write them down