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.” Imagine…. 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.