she swore she would never do it again,
through labored breathing;
and with each puff
he envisions her insides
her swelling lungs,
tar filled and stained.
"Another drink?" She asks.
"No, I've seen dimmer lights," he says.
And they suffocate the room
with silence.
He stares out the window
into the darkness of evening.
"I had a vision, a different one.
Neither of us had labored hands."
"I don't understand," she says.
"Like this table, it's too sturdy,
and this door has too many locks.
And you, too many scars."
"You think too much," she says.
At that, he exits the room
as dawn begins.