there are angels made of
sugar-coated lies and
cigarette smoke; and even though
i can't see their faces,
i swear to God they look like

(taste like, feel like, fuck like)


and you know i can't help but
imagine you coming back and
finding prayers that taste like menthols
caught between my bedsheets.

(ask me what i've been doing, and
i'll lie and say,
"forgetting you.")