La Douleur Exquise

She is chasing the end of the world

with the tip of her tongue, bruised like the night sky.

She tells him, Do not be afraid of my hands.

They are only my best weapon.

He waits dutifully

as she holds still, cigarette collecting ash,

in the same way his breathing catches fireflies

that litter the air of Belgrave Square.

Hush, she says with her knees,

and he does, because she has brought her best weapon.

Even an Uzi could not make a man

weak like a finger around tiramisu tobacco, one in the dirt, three—

three making the night tilt on its axis,

until the whole Square runs like unfinished watercolor.  

To be a good girl with such lethality

is some kind of Schrodinger’s Cat.

She tries to tell him that she is cursed

with these hands.

If sliced open, the blood would run blue

and turn him purple,

like the bruise overhead.

He assures her he doesn’t mind

so long as she watches the way

he takes the pain so gallantly.

She drops the cigarette and now

the whole city is on fire.

An inferno glistens in her eyes

as she reaches out and shows him—

finally, she has been seen for what she harbors,

just before

the heat swallows them whole.