I will blow blue smoke
around the dimmed cornices of our 3 a.m. bedroom,
for you do not have the puff to announce your death.
Your breath stumbles and trips
from your wanting, lavender-blue lips.
Pushed up by overfilled ash-tray lungs.
Cough your hopes up-
all your hopes and breathless aspirations.
Your liquid memories have flown from you.
Your dessicated, tenuous, dry
cigarette-paper-thin grip on life is strengthless.
If I could inject a viscous sentence
a gelatinised word or two to hold you together…
Lifeblood from my fingers to the keys to the page to your eyes to your heart
then woman I would.
you are a wisp,
a blue airless wisp.