Aftermath

I suppose if I just stopped spinning
the world would settle itself before me,
but darling, my mind would erupt
in volcanic spurts of the fire
that never quite burned in us.
It's despairing to endure, the physical spewing
of gray matter. Smoke becomes familiar air,
my lungs char about the edges like vintage poetry,
my breath heavily scents itself with nicotine and loss.

Dreams melt from my eyes like plastic stars,
ashes dust every thought.

The sudden upset of romance is utterly unromantic.

If I just keep spinning, dear,
I won't know to scream.