I picture him fondly on all fours,
eating scraps off the floor, his skin
washed of its scars by the bad light
he liked. Unmuzzled, he used to say,
We are having a romance. Now he’s gone
and written all my little cruelties out
of our pulp novel past. His latest letter
is a lovely ruse, but it is not a knife
I care to use. No, it’s a slow ember
I cradle in throat’s depth. He wrote,
and asked if it was wrong to write.
I breathe his smoke into the night.