Smoke That Split the Ceiling

He said the crows weren’t real.

I said neither was the heat.

Still, we fucked inside both.

***

A feather twitched near my knee

like a breath that changed its mind.

***

He asked if it meant anything.

I said always—

but only to the sky.

The crows agreed. They always do.

***

A murder of crows circled my spine

as he named my bones

for things he owed his mother.

***

When I came,

three birds vanished clean.

***

Later, he folded me in his coat

to see if I’d hold form.

***

He said the rain was rented.

I said so was his mouth.

Still, we drank until our throats stung.

***

A drop slid down my chest

like it wanted inside.

***

He asked if I believed in luck.

I said only when it cuts.

The gutter spat back.

Water always knows where to go.

***

A river bruised itself along my ribs

as he renamed each one

after the cities that broke him.

***

When I came,

a map tore itself under the streetlight.

***

Later, he pinned me to the window

to see if I’d smear.

***

He said the flames were only language.

I said so was my body.

Still, we fucked until the air blistered.

***

A spark dragged across my thigh

like a tongue that refused to stop.

***

He asked if it mattered.

I said always—

but only to the ash.

The fire agreed. It always does.

***

A blaze climbed my spine

as he shoved into me,

naming each vertebra

with his teeth.

***

When I came,

the smoke cracked open the ceiling.

***

Later, he cupped the cinders in his palms

to see if I’d scatter.