His hair was a crooked driftwood fence
and his eyes were smashed in windows
and his blink was a scream
and his teeth were family photos
and his bite was a roller coaster
and I was not on the ride.

His mouth was the tailpipe of a car, taped.
And his last smile was a surgical incision
and his tongue was shish-kebob-filet-mignon
and his voice was a broken jaw
and his laugh was a kick in the side
and his skeleton was a married woman.
He coughed, and it was a black eye.

I was a sole constant.
And his panic attacks were Old Faithful
and his arguments were the floor
and his lips were fingers
and his fingers were cigarettes
and his intestines were garden hose
and his tattoos were the Rosetta Stone
and his shadow was a burning bridge
and his heart chambers were rotting hands
and his moles were fire ants.
The whole system of his blood was horseradish.

And his ligaments were audio cables,
and his organs were old mattresses
and his lungs were filled with guitar strings
and his hands were rotting hearts.

His spine was a brand-new coal shovel
and the small of his back was an open furnace.
And his sneezes were Camel lights
and his words were UFOs
and his grin was a post-World War III version of the Eiffel Tower
and the last time we spoke, it was as mental patients.

I was an oxygen mask, filled with his smoke.

I told him,
and his face was a steel safe door,
softly clicking shut.