Saturday, August 11, 2007

Frozen Smoke


The smell of things dying
(breath lingering around our heads,
halos of denial)
We find innocence,
and let go of all the gut feelings...
I am finally alive.
I put on a sweater and adore this frost.
Getting better at throwing the cigarette butts into the can
From the inside of the door
While I'm dreaming all day in the stairwell,
Waiting for you
To feel how soft I've grown to be.

2 comments:

Paul said...

I've re-read this poem several times now, Eryn, and each time, I've gotten to like it a little more.

amuirin said...

I like it right off the bat.

I fear reading it again, it might spur some crazy attachment.