Quo Vadis

for G. H., who ruined Netflix for me
 
I never met you the first time,
splattered like paint
 
with a dry-socket smile
behind bleeding gums.
 
I ate some Valium in a bowl of oatmeal 
while you took your milk straight,
 
you with your Coco Mademoiselle scent
and your eyes behind the glass,
 
like the stuff at Tiffany & Co.
that isn't breakfast
 
with its heart-shaped, 
car-priced diamonds
 
with the nutritional value
of two carrots and platinum.
 
The last time I saw you
you were speaking French 
 
to all our friends, and I
looked you in the eye 
 
telepathically followed
the Chanel trail out the door
 
anaesthetised the rain
and I breathed out a cloud
 
with heartfeathers.
I told the story with ellipses.
 
I wrote with an open vein
into the broth.

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