She tastes like fruit punch
and gasoline
and doesn't stare
obnoxiously
at these vermilion burns
with surprise.
I find myself
chewing tinfoil and match heads
as she speaks.
When she stops
I crush cigarettes in my palm
and smile down
at the raining embers.
They remind me of her
as they kiss the concrete
and disappear.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem