I took a bus home
to your nightly reenactments, the ones performed before
you ever hid your lighters
or begged for air.
My blood’ll sort it out, you promised,
ignoring London and your
heredity, all those veils of
ash and example.
In your bedroom
you tell me not to call it
cancer, that pain gazing at itself
in a mirror of failed
body: this is the text you send me
when you want the car in the other lane
to hit you. Your fingers consider
my wrist and the steering wheel,
choosing neither of them.
When I take the bus back, I am some
numbness like your lungs
the tar-black hearse above you