It smelled of yesterdays flowers,
dying in the rain, outside my window.
I awoke to the burning embers of her
cigarette, falling freely on to the dirty carpet,
of our brand new home,
but she never missed a beat,
i could hear the bubbling sound of the
heroin she was cooking.
and it smelled good.
the bad kind of good,
or the good kind of bad,
i’m not sure anymore.
she asked me if i needed a hit,
but i had a rule ..
no speeding till i shit.
and i haven’t fuckin ate in three days.
she tied off her arm, and made that funny face,
how could you not fall in love with her,
all that charm, that pretty face.
she begged for my consent,
asking my repent,
begging me again and again,
till i said “I love you”.
she died that day.
not in the sense of heartbeat and blood,
but she was never the same
after she came down.
Said she’d seen the ghost,
of an old apple farmer, who brought
her apple cider, told her bought
the world beneath her,
said she’d burn if she didn’t
stop the flounder she was staggering
through…..
And i ain’t mad
i ain’t sad
i just wish
i had the heroin
she had
that night.
