I am the leaping embers
from the simmering coal
beneath the slats,
The curve in your spine—
the slouch in your shoulders.
I'm the lingering burn
that trickles down your throat,
into your chest cavity,
before the vodka caresses
your lungs.
I can't be the down
that floats across
your skin.
I won't be
the lullaby that whispers
in your ear.
Because the minute you've
seen the silver you are bathed in
is the minute
you won't need me
anymore.
