Paper Planes

I've smoked rings around myself,
your hands tremble, and your
heart beats a tyre-screech rhythm.

I know
you
struggle to breathe through my
acridity, but I can't feel
anything through your forcefield of
low-modality certainties

(open-mouth, eyes closed,
hair wrapped around
your fingers,
attached in all the places
your joints bend)
I don't want anything to
spark from this realisation

but

I know you're empty
and, I know it's not me
you're interested in.