Das Schwerste Gewicht

She told me to be "hot blooded" as she sipped from her steaming cup of Moroccan tea
And gently placed it next to an embellished jar of Ghoraiba
Lighted a fresh cigar, held it up like an elegant extension of her stout fingers, crowned with nails that shone like truth

And she told me to be "hot blooded" ,"Khelleki Harra."
She was not a learned woman, a whole decade older

The unsent letter addressed to her beau was laying on the table,

Scented with bitterness

Dismay between her crooked lines

She is soon to be wedded to another

I wanted to ask her what she meant; "Hot"

My cup remained untouched because it was so

But I caught the hint when I looked into her eyes and watched
The last remnants of glint  
Fading away
I don't know many "hot" folks, see, I never dared

Looked at my reddish palms, blood felt cold in my veins

And my flames are calming, with all the rain on my quiet parades
But it still troubles your spine: having to carry someone else's fallen resolves on your back
As you strive to correct your lack of any
I watched the smoke
As she spoke, in a tranquil tone

It got entangled with the sparkling gown of the chandelier

Positioned gracefully at the center of that burdened ceiling

The rat of angst scratched at my chest as I was struck by the heaviness of it; living
And I wondered: if there was no roof to this room

How far would that ghostly trail have reached

Before it faded as well?