pick me up at 8?

the crimson syrup
of his lungs splatters
the white sink.
i'm dying,
he says
lighting another cigarette,
wiping his mouth
with a sleeve.

what's the point
in quitting now, he growls.
fuck it.
his eyes are grey,
the blue
all gone.
the sunshine of his soul
has dissolved
into a yellow pale froth
of fatigue.

even his hair looks tired
as he combs it back
as if readying himself
for a friday night date.

i'll be okay, he says.
bending over to tie
a boot.
tucking his paint stained
t-shirt into his
white sagging pants. he coughs
and clears his throat.

i'll be fine by Monday,
pick me up
at 8?