the smoke above you lingers in the eaves,
mocking you, eddying into the same face you wore
when you screamed about your dead sister,
your whisky breath rotten as i ferried you away
from sleek bars and silent sidewalk stars.
somehow your scent stays unsullied--
a sweet breeze lifts a stray hair from your face
(you never let the curls free but you won't cut them),
and your cigarette glows. the stubborn odor
can't compare to your bullheadedness.
somehow a year has passed since a millionare
barbed you into a dark blue confession;
for the first time you spilled yourself
into the cracks between concrete
like rivers, and you let me feel the flow.
you're all dammed up now. the ghostly face
that rises above you meets stoic flesh and dissipates.
it will return with the next flick of your lighter,
along with the inevitable overflow
(you never let them free but you won't cut them).