She smoked a cigarette beside me
in the passenger seat of my car
in the dark, in the park one night
a lifetime ago.
She said: “We are born,
we do stuff
& then we die.
I wish I could, but
I just can’t make myself care
that much anymore…”
Spectral blue curls billowed out
from between the clumsy teeth inside
of that beautiful mouth,
& attempted to dance with those lengths
of false-coloured hair she absently caressed.
She had an affinity for dysfunction,
she told me:
“I thrive among the broken things”
& I remember thinking
that it was fucked-up
how much I wished I was more fucked-up
than I already was.
I wanted too much;
I wanted her love.
Nothing else seemed important,
not the the future, not improvement,
or the vast tracts of free & unfettered time
that lay before us.
I drove her home.
Nothing much had happened
yet somehow it still felt significant.
After she had left me, as
I sat staring into the darkness,
the smell of smoke & her presence
& I was overcome
by sensation so intense,
all that has followed since
feels like dull disappointment…
(This story is fiction, only the stories that composed it are true)