He rolls over and presses his face to the sheets
smiling as he breathes in the heat
turning back a moment later
she’s gone
so is the sweat that hung on his forehead
and the echoing calls
staring into the ceiling he takes another tab
just for good measure
he holds a pipe and the sweet tobacco burns
smoke plays like dancers in his vacuum
a friend appears in the corner
a collage of conversation
gone too soon
the pipe and the long deceased flash off
tonight he can sit in the desert
but sometimes these little holidays
are nothing but maps of places you’d rather forget
sometimes things get a little ugly
stumbling under monuments of heartache
losing yourself in the halls of the dead
whistling to make sure it’s still your head
that you’re parading about in
the night takes him to all the intersections
and says: here
should a right be
where a left you took
here
you shrug and wilt
the flowers of reason
these things won’t heal you
as if coming up for air
he pulls it into his lungs desperately
selfishly
the effects have worn off
but the nightmare goes on
