blood in your hair from beating it into a wall

you smoke inelegantly, tonguing the filter until it finds its place

between your lips, my place once, like the cherry stem you tried to tie. 

last summer, i was troubled by constant blue skies and rusted nails, 

mundane objects of disinterest that made me think of your

unchanging eyes, rusted complexion. 

toy soldiers marched across my window sill when i fell asleep in the late-morning, 

eloquent reminders of childhood's past and future’s loss. 

the next time you ask to smoke on my balcony i’ll say no–

but, for now, the answer is 

make yourself at home, roll on my railing, take my lighter, spread your things on my things