I miss the grey fingers of your smoke,
around my throat,
as I spent the night,
sleeping while awake,
in a dreamlike state,
tattooing trees,
with all the ways I loved you.
I remember longing when I was with you,
always longing,
because I’m lonely,
and unlucky,
still just the way that God made me,
but longing,
with your eyes upon me,
soothes and satisfies me,
for a little while,
long enough that I can pretend I live in a movie.
I was a big star,
montages down your boulevards,
always “Coming soon!”
but never quite arriving,
thriving on the thought that I was someone’s Bridget Jones or Charity Hope Valentine,
a brass band,
a bumbling but loveable beauty,
that will be face to face with good fortune,
one sweet day.
I miss the grey fingers of your smoke,
around my throat,
polluted and poisoned,
by how the past could never stay,
and how hard it is to accept,
that I’m just a girl,
who used to wander around London,
alone,
to take the edge off of her endless loneliness.
