poems 2 rock your soul by Jon Cryer

the smells of
cigarette smoke
cocoa butter and
vomit
no longer
linger
on the
soundstage

faint whiffs
of decadence
trailing  through
the air
like wounded
ghosts

i catch myself
saying your name
looking for you
in the bathroom
shortly before
call time
but all that
i find is
ashton
tweezing his
eyebrows