Ash

i’m sitting on the living room floor
hard wood in front of the hearth
we’re lucky enough to have
in this shit hole of an apartment
loft
whatever he wants to call it
“It’s artistic, baby. Deep.”
what
ever
i’ve got the last of his weed in my hands
rolling it around, dropping it
picking it up
piecing it back together, which really
isn’t possible
i consider throwing it into the fire
but I know better
i’m not really even much
of a stoner
myself
and i know it’d be a waste
he’s gone
left early this morning
said he was
going to be “away” for a few days
and i know what away means
it means her place
whichever “her” he’s with this month
his friend
Clark
told me once
“he loves you, so much
he’s a lot of things
but he’s not unfaithful
and he loves you, sweet girl
oh, how he loves you.”
i throw the little bits I have left
into the flame
watch it spark for a second
before disappearing
in a cloud of smoke
what’s a little bit more waste
here?