Lying together after lackluster sex,
two hedonists using each other
for cheap and fleeting thrills,
we smoke cigarettes you stole
from the gas station counter
after charming the cashier
with your lightless smile
and counterfeit warmth.
Cancerous clouds curl
along the too-close walls,
blur what little gray light
struggles through the window
as you talk about
some future I cringe from
even envisioning
for this so-called relationship
based on what amounts
to drunken mistakes
and my inability to say no
to your sweet sweet drugs:
I don’t think I can have
a serious relationship with you
unless you
can open
your heart
to Christ.
Dreadful Ideas 