From the baseboard heater
Appeared the musty scent
Of fermented dust-
It filled the room as Amelie turned on a portable fan
And a gale wafted atop our half raw bodies.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said,
“I cannot sleep without a fan on.”
Beyond her replying stare
Existed every bit of remorse
Faceless vapors that escaped my lungs
In lieu of promises-
Steaming like blood spouting
From a fresh wound.
“Do you really want to bring up the past?”
“Are you suggesting we let sleeping dogs lie?”
She laughed, “I am suggesting we let them die.”
With her tone was a familiar cynicism,
Still I felt cold
“Can I stay the night?”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
I placed my hand on the comforter,
Smoothed out wrinkles
Amassed around her bottom,
To cleanse the worshiping of misery
I laid my chin on her shoulder
And kissed her cheek.
We slept cold that night,
Huddled together like abandoned Sweet Nothings
Miming multiple Death Rattles.