Chloe

Oh she’s the girl you want, sex and
death falling like orchids from her
eyes. Always the want for it, pale
limbs sprawled across the ivory
satin chaise. Underneath my tongue
lies a fear of stroboscopic kitchens.
Of dingy pianos and teeth of clocks.
I spend my days lying still in
darkened rooms. Smoke scars
my lungs but it’s penitence. I can’t
wash the scent from my hair, your
fragrance from my tangled thoughts.
This morning I was black with
honesty. My hands fluttering like
caged birds. Here it all withers
at the slightest breath. All the
metaphors hauntingly inept. I
close my lips around the white moon
of a cigarette and feel in my pocket
for the usual casualties. The knife,
the dead frog. Before the delicious
perfection of towels crisply folded.
Now the teacups taunting, their
chipped handles. Spines doubled over
in grief. When I ask if you fear
death, you’ll claim
you’re immortal enough.