Old Flames.

Smouldering in a burnt forest with
three mosquitoes on my cigarette
one cooking.
Another in my coffee.
This is desolation
ash
mulch.
Womb.
Butterfly wings, swift currents...
Flutter of brown and blue,
a feeling akin to
when I
met

Yeah the feeling of
home.
Oh to be beautiful, and to die alone as well.

We still talk in your fathers dimly lit kitchen,
only now it's without the touching,
and I don't hold you in my arms.
It's more intimate now than it ever was before
with your illuminated smiles.
It's brighter,
now.