on loving people who exhale death and mellowness as recreation
like kissing santa
you, filled with the taste of soot,
lowering yourself down my chimney,
covered in ash, unlikely phoenix,
your only gift the taste of teeth and tongue.
I told you you were a drama queen.
being with you is at once
dramatic and asthmatic.
you are a constant fog machine.
I feel like I should be wearing a cape,
or eyeliner as heavy
as my limbs.
they lied. it doesn’t make everything funnier
and I have deeper thoughts at three a.m.
when I’m reading Infinite Jest.
your herbal remedies your snakegrass wonders
are all sawdust in engines destined
to make you forget
that time itself is burning.
molasses in the grand scheme of things.
when you date a smoker
everything turns to metaphors
of rasping inhalations and
the first being
the unpleasant discovery that
closing one’s eyes to the world
only makes it spin harder.