Cherry Rose Ash

A cigarette hangs from his lips;

cherry rose,

a taste

that I can't get enough of.

He puts his hands over my eyes

to surprise me

as though

(being as young as I was)

I didn't already know everything.

Would it sound clich├ęd if I said he was my first

my girlhood

my womanhood

all burning alive

at the end of his cigarette butt.

Where as

broiling

in the sun

and brawling

just for fun

he stuck it out with me

long enough to break my heart.

He was

unlocked doors;

blood

rushing.

He was my surrender

as well as the endeavor

that I thought would break me.

He lit up

at the end of my bed

stroking my ankles-

smooth skin

and I felt his fire

burn into me like a brand.

Their were no gifts between us

apart from a vase of flowers

that withered

years ago

because I was too afraid to dry them

as my mother had taught me to.

He used my palm as an ashtray

and his kisses

changed love

to ashes in my mouth.

A cold sweat

and phone calls,

I could have written beautiful love poems about him,

had he not left.

His heart

burned at the end of his cigarette butt

but after the last puff

his love for me went out.