cigarettes on the bedside table

i couldn't feel the bruises
from the night before last
with your skin against mine

we were illumined in dim reds
and silhouettes of blacks
from the gaps of our negative spaces  

i couldn't remember
how much i’d had to drink or smoke
in the vapours of your scent

with your self-constraint
you engraved an imprint on my forehead
and left me on the edge of sleep

and in the morning there were cigarettes
on my bedside table because you knew
how much i liked to kill myself with smoke.