This is really an apology for how I dropped the cigarette near the end and it rolled into the divot of your pillow instead of the ashtray. Salt and pepper flakes everywhere and when I tried to sweep them into my hand they dissolved into gray smudges and striped your sheets like a zebra’s skin. This is why we can’t have nice things, you joked, pushing your mouth into the curve of my shoulder. I crushed the shape of my lips on the filter into restless powder.
Car horns spill into the gap where the smoke escapes. Before you left we rolled all over and I cupped you in my hands and gave momentum with my tongue. Again I misjudged the distance between the bedframe and the windowsill and my cigarette rained hash all down the headboard. Again you grabbed me around the middle and the fiery end went up in the air. I am sorry for the mess but not for much else.
