Roll her up

in the sheets of the night before.

Light her up,

watch her dance round your lips.

She can’t be good to me, they say.

Then why so sweet to my lungs?

And a gentle force upon the chaos in my head?

Perhaps an addiction by excessive inhalation,

but if I were to stop

and there be an intervention,

I would turn to dust

but rather be ash, the aftermath,

the aftermath of consumption by fire,

the fire within her love and lust.