i suppose, it's a start to admit

that i'm in love with a man who always finishes his joints

and who sends me twirling into the air with his trails of smoke

a man who works me as if i'm the keys of a piano

and plays the softest, most beauitful song

It would be a lie to say the love i hold

is a strong piece of twine,

unbreakable through the bonds of admiration and desire

rather, it's a flimsy envelope

with tatters and tears

and scratched out names

and sometimes,

he ashes on it