smoking sanity


she tries on masks each evening, with a bottle of wine.
the chain smoke circling her head like a gentle fog. her long
white gloves tipping at the ash tray. every envious suitor
has a tale from that strange night. scratching at the brink of
sanity, where age does not matter, where cold bones rise rest less.

she is that, and more. dark. lurid. leaning into the wind.

some nights she will call to her suitors, long after they've left.
madness is unique for each tenant, wouldn't you say? slowly
devouring what others recall. "pass me another cigarette,"
she would say. "i think i'm losing my mind."