The last of the light squanders itself on skeleton trees,
cactus flowers languish in the desert wilds,
somewhere there is thunder in a snowstorm.
You once said love was wasted on people like me.
Almost as painful as the time you said,
“I don’t think you’re capable of being happy.”
When some lead-hearted god reached into your mind,
turned your memories into roiling tangles
and your tongue became a knot behind your teeth,
I waited beside you, what was left, until they told me,
“It’s time to go.”
Now I sit here and smoke, and smoke
until my lungs can’t remember the taste of air.
When I unpack your bag, inhale your scent,
my tongue recalls a taste mysterious as cactus flowers,
ethereal as thunder in a snowstorm.