nothing serious

Poetry

the embers in your touch

don’t leave any marks on my throat.

we are cigarettes with

clearly labeled warnings —

more honesty here than

in the Forever of commitment.

we know: statues on pedestals

don’t smolder like this.

best to take a long drag,

fill each other’s lungs —

each other’s blood —

let it burn for a bit,

then flick the ashes away.