I become aware of you,
standing next to me on the street corner,
and I become aware
of my own breath.
It's forty degrees out
and you're wearing a t-shirt
and I am the one
out of place.
You light a cigarette. Self-destruction,
but the delicious kind. The only
kind.
Barely there bite marks
and dark under-eye circles.
I've known you for a grand total
of thirty-six seconds
but I want to write you a letter
(do people still do that?)
of words I don't know yet. I feel like
I’ve seen you before,
but in a passing car
or a barely lit window
at dusk. Caught
in a moment of humanity.
I close my eyes and I can see us,
together,
laying on cold ground:
nearly dead
but never feeling more alive,
watching vultures
circle above us
before they move on,
in search of something better,
fresher.
Our eyes meet,
streetlamps flicker,
and your lips part,
smoke rolling out
like a beckoning finger:
"Come,
have a taste
of my
mortality."
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