A face whose features fell away

but I get ahead of myself as I so often do
with the taste of nicotine and grit of ash
always on my hands no matter how much I wash
and I did my thesis on Shakespeare so I know
indelible; core memories are snowflakes - gray
and not metaphoric - lighting on my already
cold cheek to blend with the absolutely nothing
because I hadn't started the adultness of
acknowledging the gaping maw of boxes
being carried away, in perpetuity