Smoke In His Teeth

He caught smoke in his fingers and pressed it through the gap

In his teeth, releasing it onto the wild plains of his lungs.

It curled across the cracked earth of his soul, brushed against

The old magic in his chest where lightning carved scars into his heart

And memories broke in a torrential downpour of unfathomable sorrow.

.

He stood rigid in the middle of an old-growth forest brimming

With its own magic, the kind that floated on fog and poisoned fools.

He had never been a fool and his spine had always been strong but now...

Black eyes blinked and smoke puffed from his lips like the creeping fog.

Fools stood alone with blood on their hands and here he was, alone.

.

With blood on his hands.

.

Fog crept around ankles clad in black trousers meticulously pressed,

Ironed and kept perfectly neat to give the illusion of unwavering control.

The charade cracked months ago now and he was left with its shard,

Glittering like the stars that abandoned him in his black eyes.

Cigarette in hand, his eyes trailed to the boundary of forest and yard.

.

So many great things had left his side whether by death or the cruel touch

Of light and dark magic, both which seemed to hate his soul

With pre-determined fury, blood in the nostrils of a starving shark.

Maybe he simply suffered prettily, maybe he ached so seductively

That not even the universe itself could refuse a taste of his sour blood.

.

Smoke curled in his mouth and joined the fog with a dissatisfied hiss.

It was another autumn but there was a notable emptiness without

The great display of northern lights casting emerald across his black heart.

There were hardly any colours left in the trees now, the wind having ripped

The red and orange and brown leaves from their happy home.

.

They had already floated off into the dark forest thick with fog.

Like bones of the dead, they slept at the bases of the old trunks,

Curling against the roots with their last words stolen like blood.

Black eyes glittered with disgust; smoke trailed from the cigarette.

A cluster of orange wobbled in the obsidian eyes as his mind fled to him.

.

He would have loved this cool, somber weather littered with drizzle.

It would have been an impossible activity, chaining him inside.

Imagining him lying in the grass, gazing at the spattering of colour

Strewn carelessly across the endless grey sky, was effortless.

It was natural to imagine him smiling at the oak leaves, legs up the trunk.

.

There were touches of him everywhere and nowhere all at once.

A coffee spoon with its grounds left spilled on the counter, untouched.

Scattered books, the stories they promised to read together by a winter fire.

The red hands of the oak nestled firmly in the crown of another,

Leafless and touched by the black scorch marks of lightning yet alive.

.

The tree healed from the strength of the oak, propping it up, nourishing it.

Slipping nutrients and dreams through the roots, the oak coated in moss

Cradled the dying embers of the stricken tree with a promise of tomorrow,

The tantalizing possibility of living until the next rainfall, the next snow,

Perhaps even the next century with roots grown into one another.

.

Together.

.

The window bit into the bones of his forearm as he leaned into the cold air.

What had happened to that word that once propped up his soul?

It had crumbled in his mouth, and decayed in his hands like old seeds.

They were fallow regardless, dead reminders of something imaginable.

That was gone now too, cracked and broken and hollow like a fallen log.

.

A flash of magic destroyed the cigarette but the smoke stuck to his teeth.

Bitter failure soured the sweetness of the tobacco until he could taste only

The regret of losing the beautiful emerald light in his darkness to what?

A cruel king that had planned this ache all along and the trees were still

Together, together, together, mocking him while he was...

.

Alone.

Hauntingly alone.

No one to share his mornings, no eyes to glance at his accomplishments.

The nights were empty and silent when he woke from the terrors.

Not even the owls bothered with conversation in the absence of the green.

.

A long-fingered hand rhythmically opened and closed, wantonly,

Around the ghost of something that had not existed for a very long time.

He had held his lover's hand as though he could outlast the magic.

How long, he wondered, did those bruises last on that skin?

Not long enough to outpace forgetfulness.

.

Perhaps, he was never coming back.

.

Cool wind waved through the straight black hair, disturbing its neatness.

The ache subdued by the smoke began again in his chest, unrestrained.

Curling upward, it bared its fangs and sank into his neck,

Sank into the red, starburst scar covering the hollow of his throat,

And bled poison into his blood until all the light vanished from his gaze.

.

“I am a ghost," thin lips whispered, "A passing flash of black

Against a canopy of living, breathing colours that do not want me.

I am fading in those green eyes to something far worse, a memory of

A memory losing its vibrancy, losing its colour, losing its power and I

Am not black as midnight any longer; I’ve become imperceptible.”

.

He had become all but transparent, screaming into the void,

Bashing his skull open on the rocks of dangerous thoughts as he looked

Into the abyss that stretched before him, inside him, below him

To find a sliver of his lover's magic that could still react to his presence.

He had become a living ghost, transitioned effortlessly into myth.

.

The black eyes dotted with red lines of sleeplessness were left with little,

With the changing trees and the fade of spring to summer to autumn.

Failure plucked the chords of his heart and played the prettiest sound.

It hurt like a hex, shredding his skin without leaving a visible trace,

Peeling him apart like the sloughing, curling paper of a birch.

.

The agony burned in his soul and set flame to his hope as the days dragged.

What he yearned for burned for the longest time before the agony of it

Sank into his bones, charred the white, and turned him dark.

The abyss of despair opened its hand and grabbed him by the neck,

Choked the words in his throat before they could even escape.

.

Tonight the tears watered and wobbled along the dark lash lines,

Slipping and falling as a choked, broken sound escaped into the fog.

There was no smoke to hide behind any longer and the fog left mist

On his pale skin that was too cold to be the touch of the man he lost.

And so there was nothing to do but let his soul break; the man wept.

.

Saltwater lakes formed in the soil and fed the roots of hibernating weeds.

Subtle earthquakes trembled in his slender shoulders.

A tectonic shift was occurring and the molten pain of months lost

Scorched a trail of despair through his soul, his magic, his chest.

He wailed into the darkness of the night but it went unheard.

.

Fairy tales about love were supposed to end in stars and twilight,

Lovely little memories that scraped away the black tar of bad dreams

But fairies were nasty, deceptive things with sharp claws and teeth.

The pain shouldn’t have been a surprise but still it cut so deep

That there was nothing to do but expose his teeth to the forest and howl.

.

Rain drizzled from the grey blanket of sky and a thunderous cry

Burst from the scarred throat, turning it red as veins bulged along his neck.

He would have loved the rain too, the grey, the vanishing fog, all of it.

Would have wanted to take his hand and dance through puddles,

Sit under the tree and listen to the song of raindrops.

.

He would have loved the rain and hated the tears with as much passion,

Brushed them away with the pad of his thumb just as he had

In those nightmarish moments before that spell dragged its serrated knife

Between them and ripped away the golden magic of the man he loved more

Than the glittering essence of the threads of magic itself.

.

One word, one spell, "Abeo", whispered into the forest, shredding his hope.

Another roll of thunder from his throat and this time he collapsed,

Elbows sinking into the frame of the window as sorrow shook his bones.

The flowers once blooming in his soul had already withered in the frost.

This dream of his lover was a lost thing floating downstream.

.

Away from him.

.

Tears slicked his palms as the rain coursed down his angular cheeks.

Hollow wails filled the rural silence of the countryside, despairing, hollow.

He could smell the last roses of the season below him and the dank,

Moldy perfume of unraked leaves that sheltered the bugs the man so loved.

Winter was an inevitability.

.

Winter, alone by the hearth as the last of the seasons with his lover arrived.

Alone by the Yule tree he would erect in the home and decorate as though

Nothing had ever happened and he would wake and walk down the stairs

To his favourite holiday spread across the house like a plague but he

Would not arrive this Yule, not in dreams or nightmares or reality.

.

He would be alone in the home with its decorations and lights,

Isolated with an extra cup of peppermint cocoa no one would drink.

No one would be there to curl against his side and sleep on the cold nights.

Everything would slip into the cruel silence of undeniable loss

As the world's internal clock ticked away, wasted a future now lost.

.

There was nothing to guard but empty chairs set up by the fireplace.

There was nothing to protect but old mugs and favourite spoons.

There was nothing to look after, just an empty side of the bed.

Sorrow ached in his chest beside the constricting despair.

Green eyes, warm skin, a soft smile...it should have never haunted him.

.

These tears should not have ever arrived but his arms failed to hold close

The most important soul he had ever stumbled across.

It was a pitying thing, weeping like this over a loss that was his to prevent

But the force was undeniable and so his breath faltered and the tears

Continued to come, to flow, to endlessly feed the already dead garden.

.

He wouldn't let him go.

The empty glass stayed on the counter.

A book beside the bed, its bookmark three-quarters of the way through.

Two lines of six scratched off on a to-do list, the rest untouched.

His wand, polished and ready for a duel, sleeping on the coffee table.

.

Wet, river stone eyes, black already and dark with despair,

Looked at the falling leaves of orange and brown and yellow,

Violently remembering all the unfinished things

That would remain scattered like the leaves until his lover returned,

Until the splintered, peeling heart in his chest beat again.

.

There was no beat to his heart without the mossy-eyed dreamer at his side.

His blood had already turned rank and bitter, sluggish and thick.

The light of the northern lights flickering against the black may well be lost

Until the sands of time finished their path through the hourglass.

And so he sobbed, clinging to himself, as he remembered the man's beauty.

_________________________________________

Rest of the series below:

Bleeding Petals

The Tether

Strings of Night

Obsidian Water

The Cottage Window

Nighttime Pastime