Fumes.

I wanted him so badly, I could barely breathe.

I want to grab him, inhale him, have him fill me.

Enveloping, suffocating. Thick in the air.

Oh, to be awash with his scent and skin.

But he doesn’t want to choke on love

To him, it is an asphyxiant.

The main culprit of toxic fumigation.

A prison even present in our open field.

All he sees is a hazard.

And he stands in the fog, gas mask present.

While I choke in its throes, attempting to lead him to safety.

But he’d rather stay within the disarray,

for confirmation of his self-fulfilling prophecy

regardless if the rest of his body withers.

“And what a lovely sight,” he says.

We could’ve died together.

We could’ve lived together.