All I do is sleep, eat and think about when I’ll write my next poem…

“my body feels better,—healthier.” I say with a faded smile.
“But life holds no meaning.”

I sigh into his palm,
kissing the open torso of it.
A flaxen crumb on the corner of my tongue
sits like a dull ache;
all sentiments
of my sensitive jaw
simple gestures of profound,
of mundane—

I am but a corpse withering,
with this lack of smolder in the blood.

And though it might seem strange,
to erect such inflammation
from such an obtuse situation,
BUT my pining pulsing fingerwrist don’t know the difference.

“Everything feels dead.” I whisper
“What did you say?” he yells from the kitchen, where he’s pouring us a drink.

Two addicts
calming the other,
while a rain soothes.

We will never know cold in this city.
Cold remains a concept.
Like smoking.

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