The joy in me is flat and grey.
I lift it up to give it light,
to make it airy,
to hope it will fly.
Cigarette burns
and perfume’s blue fire —
these memories
are all I have.
I wonder if I will still have them
somewhere inside me
when I am too old
to remember my own name.
I’m not sure I ever loved you.
That thought makes me happy.
The joy in me is bright.
I am bright.
At some point
you will bear the brunt
of my benediction,
and I will let you go
but for right now,
I accept the lovely, terrible fact
that I do not wish you
any kind of peace.
“Perfume’s blue fire” — I love it.
Thank you!