You ate my heart on a wintery night
a few autumns ago, having crept out
into the dusk with your hand in mine and
a lit joint pinched between your lips. I held it out,
beating, the blood dripping between my fingers,
staining the cracks in my skin crimson.
I felt your laugh against my spine, melodic
and ominous, quaking like a tremor in the earth,
and the echoes of it bubbled up from my lungs.
For weeks I couldn’t shake the lingering taste
of smoke and ashes tinged with blood
that filled my mouth whenever I said your name.