On a Floral Carpet

"Back to the drawing board," he said
with a slow but unsure smile.
"Let's try this again –
let's try this right."
But his heart was traipsing off,

A fire started in his fingertips
and his tongue, months ago,
until last night when the ceiling
came crashing down
and the stars stared at us coldly,

The crumbling ash at the very end
of his cigarette sighed:
The end. Game over.
Go home. Good night.
And he sung me into sleep on
the floor of a motel.

This morning he opens my suitcase
and takes the sleeping pills inside –
one by one by one
– inhaling the eventuality
of every moment as he
rests his head on my shoulder.
We dream together.

The blinds are closed
and ignorance is bliss…