in a chance meeting with the lips that were the chaperone of
in a chance
meeting with the lips that were
the chaperone of your cotton mouth,
i kindled a spark on the tip of my tongue
with the sole intent of lighting the cotton;
burning it with incendiary agility,
that guides towards your clouded lungs.
i never fathomed your psyche;
and as it burned, it still refused
to release you—clear as glass—
to cry for mercy with the truth,
instead preferring to asphyxiate
in an obscurity that won’t dispel.