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,
elsewhere.
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,
unaffected.
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…