The hand will stutter like a lying friend as the match is lit and brought under eyes

The back will arch as you sit still and quiet – breathing
     and shaking
          while the world passes

Necks will turn and mouths will open to utter words muffled in din of lamplight and glow of cigarettes

It is just bearable
     That which is the inside
     That which is the adrenaline rush of new and skin and unremembered

The hair and skin and eyes of memory will haunt you even in the dreamstate of wake

Those eyes of wood behind will wake in blue mornings, leaving you wanting the prick of down through sheets.