Shouting Silence

Last night the moon kissed notches
in the deck you built last summer.
Smoke from one cigarette, burned itself
into my lungs and fingers.
My hair was wet, smelling of fruit
while my skin itched from mosquitoes
gorging themselves on what was left
of my "pretty" years.
I realized then,
almost drowning
in my slow to dissolve way,
these steps bruised my children.
Despite the smoke,
I can still breathe silence,
no longer needing intention
for living this way.