I can still smell the smolder
from the fire you sparked last night.
I watched you through the window a few times
but stayed inside. For space.
You dwelled close to the pit. I watched the smoke curl
around your frame. Darkness wrapped in darkness.
How long have you breathed it all in?
Trachea, rib cage, lungs – all blackened.
Is anything left?
I close my eyes, try to remember the last time
one ear against your chest. Try to remember
the last time we were close. I could hear some hollow
sound inside, a dead crackle
like gray smog from wet kindling,
a stagnant glimmer
where (I think)
a heart should be.