Quo Vadis

I never met you the first time,

splattered like paint

with a dry-socket smile

behind bleeding gums.

I ate some Valium in a bowl of oatmeal

while you took your milk straight,

you with your Coco Mademoiselle scent

and your eyes behind the glass,

like the stuff at Tiffany & Co.

that isn't breakfast

with its heart-shaped,

car-priced diamonds

with the nutritional value

of two carrots and platinum.

The last time I saw you

you were speaking French

to all our friends, and I

looked you in the eye

telepathically followed

the Chanel trail out the door

anaesthetised the rain

and I breathed out a cloud

with heartfeathers.

I told the story with ellipses.

I wrote with an open vein

into the broth.