a man's breakfast

I woke up with the taste of camaraderie in my mouth;
blanched at the sight of your hair still caught in my teeth
as if you had shed a bit of your soul on my pillowcase. I
rose from bed and wiped away the stains of solidarity
you left like an imprint of your lips on my sheets. Somewhere,
you're waking up in his arms and he holds you like you
are something delicate; a flower blossoming for the world
in his hands. I'm left wondering about the implications of
lotuses and inner peace as I stumble towards the microwave,
pretending it can give me instant gratification
the way my soul was exhumed from my body; your lips
pressed up against some mysterious orifice
that could release some false sense of catharsis.

I'm having my first smoke break of the day. It's been 96
hours since I last thought of inhaling carcinogens into my lungs
to forget about that venereal disease they call emotion. I
occasionally worry that this is less holy than the rest of my works,
sculpted out of abstractness as if my words were ethereal
instead of nebulous claims to immortality, some sort of verbal
invulnerability that breaks the way I got down on my knees
to hear you scream my name