It’s in the phantoms of your arms -
the path and the smoke you leave behind
just outside my focal length
that fund the false peace I tended to

My legs can’t replicate the steps
the adrenaline is still there,
dancing closely as to syncopate a pulse
just to melt the wax and feel warmth
imagining that something would change.

How cruel your compassion became
how damning your gentle touch
completely enrapturing me in memory
looks like we’re both trying to quit something