It smells of soot.
A metaphorical,
distant
soot.

it smells of soot the same way an apartment would smell of home;
you say it like you know what burning feels like
when, in reality, you have always been frozen—

and it tastes like sin.
At least
however sin would taste like
to the aftertaste of libation.

it tastes like sin the same way flesh coats a tongue;
you crave it like you delight in it
when, in reality, you are only sinning to cure your sins:

You used to wear
this jacket.
a lot.

You were unused to the cold
because you had come from celsius,
and sweltering heat in the summer,
and you are terrible, yes,
but you still wore a wonderful coat.

It bunches at my wrists.
it’s much too wide.
But despite that,
I feel whole.

At least more complete than when I was with you,
because although it hurts I must admit it’s true;
you have built me up. And I have built you too,
but I don’t care for you the same way you do.

It’s not unrequited love;
it’s nothing romantic.
I am dainty like the feather of a dove
and you caught up on the semantic.

I cannot stop writing about the bad things
or the sad things, or the rad things, the mad things,
but all I want are a pair of beautiful white wings
to burst from this oversized jacket that stings
when it touches my skin;
when I smell the ash and taste the sin,
when the cacophony rises to an intolerable din;
I cower. And I hide. And fill the garbage bin
with my presence.

and the largeness
of this jacket
is no more.

And I realize
that I only need myself
to be complete.

And although you built me
apparent if you can see,
we will never be.

Because I was cracked glass
and you some other mosaic
and you offered me peace
and I was naive.

So I wear this jacket
and I do not weep.