You Are low,
show me your petals.

She lives life like the
silence of falling snow,
or like the smell of
fresh rain on her skin.

Pretty pink petals pull
open for me to taste
her sweet nectar,
let us pollinate.

I'm losing my souls
a step at a time.

My ears get hot when you
**** me at gunpoint.

"My future ex-wife,
are you still alive?"*

The thought hit me as I was out of cigarettes one Monday morning, when I remembered that the previous night I was only able to smoke half of my last one. I had put the shorted cigarette underneath of a spring doorstop, still in plastic and uninstalled, that lay resting on the brick pillars erected on the front porch of the house. For as long as I've lived there, that doorstop had been lying on those painted bricks just waiting for a half of a cigarette to protect from the wind and snow.
The filter, on that common Monday morning, was ice on my lips, and your frostbitten love was inside of my lungs.
As it smoldered and spewed twirling blue swirls,
I sat and recollected upon you.