air used to be a luxury.
it used to be easy
to breathe.
now my fingers
are stained
with soot
and my eyes
itch.
i wander the space
like a ghost;
recognized as only
an apparition
because you are too distracted by the bliss
behind your eyes.
the smoke empties from your mouth
like water—
tinged with angry blue
and wild like
glacier.
the scent chokes me,
my face clenches
into some strange smile.
you're too far gone
to notice
the personal waterfalls
draining from my
eyes.
"are you okay," they ask.
"are you okay"
"are you okay"
the space between the questions
is never enough to
answer anything more than
"yes."
the scent
sends me into some
distant,
panicked,
frenzy,
because i am terrified of losing your
sincerity.
but you are glazed.
and i am struggling.
