Shisha

a poem. 

My love, I see you through a haze that smells
Of coconuts and sickening strawberries.

Your hands curls languidly around the pipe in your hand,
your fingers caressing the lean curves of its throat.

My throat.

In the eighteenth century, Chinese warlords were
Drunk on the milk of blood flowers;
You are drunk on bright African daisies and cloying roses,
the distilled alcohol of fruits.

Your chest heaves once, breathing in decadent scents
rich and nauseating.
I wish to press my lips against the ends of the pipe and
breathe out

so instead of false fruits and lies that smell like ripe cherries,
you are drunk on me
And the haze dissipates.