Tip-tip-tip over
Bowled like the stark white of a pin
Those two red lines
Wrap around my cheeks
Smudge between my eyebrows
say I'll never win
You are claustrophobic
Cloying
To my skin and hair and heart
A high-stakes perfume
A magnanimous plume
Of smoke
Rising from the hearth
I choke
On it in forests clear and bright
Cedarwood and sparkling night
The atmosphere is starved
For wanting you
And at times it seems that's all
I'm meant to do
For in the quiet of a class
Restless-leg afternoon
A hand on my arm
A breath trails out sparse
I only wish
That this dream
Could come true