you don't remember
maybe it was in February
when you forgot
her Valentine's Day present
that was a doozy
or maybe in April
when a pregnancy scare
turned into a real one
that hospital trip wasn't fun

either way she's been doing it
every time your bodies come together
the aftermath of that apocalypse
is silence and a grandiose puff of smoke
it is always a cloud at first
it obfuscates her face
and her dyed hair
and that doeful look in her face

she's stressed out
you know she is
she says it every day
at the dinner table
that's all you hear
in bed
that's all you hear
sometimes you ache to do it
just like she does, to spite her
she will know what that smoke does
how much it takes over
makes her so unseeable
for anyone and everyone
who truly wants to peer inside

you ask her one night to stop
you seize her carton
and clench it in your fist
you have it! the source to her plague!
they fly out the window
out into the summer day
sticks of white
exaggerated snowflakes
and you know that the scars
that are found within her
will be transferred

the next time you sleep together
she takes all the covers
your face is covered in scratch marks
at work, they ask what happened
you say it was the cat
their response, usually,
referred to your neck
where marks spanning from the base
to the jawline are bright red
recent, by the looks of it
and you repeat: it was the cat
you don't have a cat
except the one beside you
she is the only one
and she stole all the covers
perhaps to cover up her smoke
perhaps