Loss lingers on your breath like cigarette smoke,

Back bent beneath a frame, almost unable

to carry its own shame anymore.

There are no burning cinders to revive, to try

Stoke in that

Burnt-out fire, feeling its way through smoke

That rose years ago, but still throws you

forwards, and downwards and makes you

Choke,

On your own insincerity, which is barely even aware

Of its own squalid existence,

Insisting instead that it cares, should it

Dare to, when it is wallowing over

in itself, still

Scared to.