weathered.

was it the smoke?
the way his cigarette
all broken and crumpled
traces the outline of a face
that has seen too many
afternoons
shift between a salt
sun bathed in
sweat
and a crisp night
sharpened by

solitude.

was it the approaching moon?
the way you
caught my eye
and followed my silhouette
i am a moth
to flame
once tampered by the sound
of your faraway touch
i cannot walk away without this
cut having opened
(devoured)
the insides of me