Just A Trace

It's the smell of smoke
of running hard in the early morning
it is clear water so cold
it stops your heart.

It's the seductive assault
of turpentine, sharp and mean
of latex and steel warmed
by flesh.

It's that electronic smell
from the inside of computers
and software cases
it is pressed and polished
starch and cotton
faintly warm and acrid.

Just a trace of you
twining insidiously inside me
reminding me
that you'll be here soon.

In the Haze

I sit in the shadows of madness
surrounded by the nearly-dead
whisphering indeciperable answers
to imbecilic questions
offering witty quips
to Death astride His pale horse
the tatterdemalion
remnants of humanity
mere vapor, lost in smoke
attempting to find meaning
in glowing embers
who can succor
me now?