Garden-Variety Oblivion

There was ash in

my hand and

the taste of death

on my lips

and every year that

went by, it felt a

little bit less

like Christmas.

There was only

the echo of laughter,

the aftertaste

of content.

I ached for

your touch, clung to

the fading vestiges

of our love.

I felt you

behind my teeth,

on the edges

of my breath,

drawing borders

around my words

and leaving me

choking on your name.

Now, half-remembered,

blurred and unfocused,

lost in some garden-

variety oblivion.

The scars,

no longer fresh.

They take time,

but they heal.

My last cigarette

was years ago.

So too was the last time

I thought I loved you.