Love, a Little Curl

I kindle the pen, a cigarette -
I smoke a syringe.
Perhaps, they're right in saying
that I'm doing it wrong.

Smoke-song, I break
into little curls
as I poem the homeless love
for him.

He arches in my thoughts -
a pretty, garden bridge;
I coil, a snake,
guarding this memory.

Long time, he chimed
to the wind in my hair.

Long time, he fluttered
his lying lashes.

Long time, I held
onto his cruel, cruel ways.

Long time, he denied
me a divorce.