She says her peace like truth then holds it.
What a bitch, I think, as something in me screams and dies.
Three years won and lost like some back alley dice game.
I bet too high.
I go to speak and can’t. Can barely think.
I want to rant. Instead I look away, shame faced,
full of fear and passion I can’t feel.
My fingers reminisce over her skin from the safety of my lap.
She won’t look at me so I watch her mouth.
I watch her lips pucker around a cigarette, puff and part.
I watch the smoke coil between them like a serpent.
I watch them shape the words I already expect.
I can’t say anything, I have nothing to offer,
but I know she needs something, so I nod.
I want to laugh, or scream.
I want to feel something other than the numbness.
I keep nodding.
After a while she looks up at me. I can see tears uncried in her eyes.
Something like a smile eats at the corners of her mouth.
‘At least the morphine was good,’ she whispers.