I blow you
out, extinguished flame –
you always smell the same
as a candle that has just been snuffed,
as that tiny trail of most delicious smoke
that dances from the blackened wick,
the one that I cannot catch
as it disappears too quick.
You are the spent match,
used and then discarded,
you crumble at my touch
and your patience with me vanishes,
as it so often does.
You are the charred remains
with which I paint
a smile onto my skin, for my sins,
for yours: we share a love we both abhor,
and practice makes these sparks
so easy to ignore.
But when I am gone
you will taste my pretty ashes on your tired tongue
and curse yourself for failing
to start fires when you had the chance,
and so the smoke will never dance