He struts in like a
bad John Wayne impression,
leans an arm on the bar.
The dust on his coat
could be from a ranch,
but the reek of mothballs
gives him away.
Stoic eyes glaze with effort
of pretending to be blind
to passing sways.
His shoulders stiff in anticipation
of a soft touch,
            necessary human contact.
He never smiles,
passes time giving the lights
smoke halos.
He goes home alone,
confused
as to why.

            She said, “Good night, sweet dream”,
her lips close to his ear.
A hand brushes wayward wisps from his face.
Gentle kiss left on his cheek.
She smiles as she looks at him,
sighs stretches,
naked moonlight glistening her flesh.
Door shut tight as she leaves.

In the shower, she finds
permanent marker marks her.
She has to scrub off layers of skin.
Crimson spots prick through thinning tissue.
Behind the mist, she smiles,
lets the smoke take her thoughts
through the vent
to the cold outside…
they freeze      drop      shatter
            sparkle with the snow.

She wraps in terry cloth warmth
wraps her hands round a cup…
coffee steam hisses…
            “What did you do?”
Nothing.
            Relentless steam: “What did you give him?”
She searches smoke memories…
            sweet dream;
            the world needs dreams as sweet as his…
                          if only she could remember      how.
She empties the cup
silences steam,
goes to join his
sweet dreams.

The door opens to scarlet walls
            drying deep burgundy.
A knife slants in his chest.
            She screams at
            what someone has done.