you pulled it off the fork with your teeth,
chewed it, tongue sticking to
the roof of your mouth,
and when there was no more honey
you spit the wax into your palm.
i rub the shower gel under my breasts
as hot steam crawls up the glass
and sweet, stinging
cigarette smoke floats up through the drain;
in the hotel lobby downstairs, thin ribbons
of smoke curl up to the ceiling
from men drinking cocktails and popping
wasabi-covered nuts onto their tongues between sips,
and three floors above them as i breathe in the smoke
i can't help but think about that time
we went to my place on an early-autumn morning,
when you kissed me on the mattress,
inching your palms up my spine;
you stood up next to the window,
asked if you could light a cigarette, and i said
no, you'll stink up the whole block.
maybe, if i'd let you, a girl in the shower
a few floors above
would've been rubbing your smoke into her skin.
or maybe, if i'd let you,
you would've stayed a bit longer.