You like a Lucky Strike,
I held nimbly between my lips.
I breathed you in, like no one I had ever had insufflated.
Festooning you in cinnamon lip gloss.
I wonder if you can still taste it?
Yet, you were incendiary.
And cold as the smoke of our fires,
Painted Renoir’s above us imbrued.
Bits and pieces of what we were, and
What we wanted to be but,
We never had the courage to give birth to.
Because we fell at our conception,
And we laugh now at the death,
That lay before us now.
A miscarriage of choleric red.
I cannot hang you above my dining room table.
Or put you up for a half-dollar at a tag sale.
For you were that piece of art no one would take a second look at,
Yet, I found something in you.
And I held tightly to it for four seasons.