My Sweater Vest Darling

Burning ashes on your coffee table from our last cigarette together.
Like a metaphor:
perhaps real,
perhaps a dream. 


Always never the way it seemed.


I never smoked
and you stopped years ago
and we both know we would never do it again.
yet I would black my lungs to feel that youthful again.


My thoughts are shuffling like basement dreams,
deep down I know we were barely thirteen.

Yet I miss the thrill of your self destructive heart 
that melts in the sun like chocolate,
bittersweetly and incandescently.

As much as I want to put you back in the fridge and freeze you back to your original state,
it's too late.

You would be trapped in a wrapper that doesn't fit the way it should.

I could open you up but would it be worth it? 
Would you taste the same?
Would you still smell like smoke and rain?

I'll never know.
So I thought I would leave out all the rest, my sweater vest darling.
You're worth a thousand cigarettes and a hundred acoustic songs.
Yet the human soul is known to find the good in things
and to feel nostalgia even when it's wrong.

So maybe I'm wrong. 

And you knew you were too young to be this broken.
And you knew I would never truly be yours,
and I knew that too.
We were too broken to be young,
my sweater vest darling.