i dream of you all the time. it starts with the smoke, tapering upwards like the flickering tail of a fire.

the snake the tail belongs to is shedding its skin again, impermanent and hollow like anything made to fall apart, borne entirely by habit to break. your eyes are rimmed the same red as your smile, and maybe i lean closer, but the fog is too thick to tell.

now it’s a hotel room i’ve never seen before in my life, the light filtering in slits, striping the room in half moon, half shadow. somewhere in these four walls, a pink glow. my pulse. your smile, again.

i lean in, drunk with faith, and the record skips, hiccups. we’re sitting cross-legged on the same bed. the fire you've conjured licks at my hands like the light trick at the tip of the candle - harmless, not quite there, and you don’t try and save me, much less yourself.