Anyone Can Title This

I watch
as she cuts
coke lines
with a razorblade.
The fresh scars on her arm
make me wonder
if I can get AIDS this way.

She passes a damp
over the surface,
wearing a fanged smile
as she says
“Waste not, want not.”

That finger
should have been
gently tracing
the outlines of my face,
hinting at Sunday brunches
and other things
more nefarious.

Perhaps one day
she’ll get softer behind
closed doors.
But for now,
I’ll just hold this door

I don’t want
to dig deep enough
and find out if the pain
in my chest
is the AIDS
or heartbreak.


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