i sit cross-legged on your kitchen floor, holding a cigarette out of the window while you
walk in barefoot and lift your shirt
to show me your new tattoo.
[i'll always be that memory now, you know?]
you hate my smoking because
you want me around for the future.
i spent years joking about cancer and
look where it got me.
[touch my face now or maybe in thirty years and see
me young as the day we met.]
i am irony and maybe i am dying.
you joke about marrying me, i joke about