Kerbside, night, and someone
who’s not quite you, don’t worry,
I’m not quite me either.
and rain, and left
a taxi pulls
away, with that where’s-home
ache in its eyes. she’ll light
a cigarette, her hands cradling
warmth: need met
in clinging.
oh and neon
draped like a frame, meaning
something here. you’ll have left
some inkblot bruise to read,
some touch that touching leaves:
tomorrow
you’ll tilt your head back laughing
and he’ll be immortal. I’ll be
fine here, here where vase
shards from some spent drama
mark our missteps, clink,
I mean, underfoot. and I’ll sigh the
kindest sigh I can give her, no,
she won’t
shiver with the fourth touch
of fifth finger
on her hip bone, but
she’ll ribbon our promises softer,
well watch them melt
like origami
in that rain I mentioned.

Photo: Flickr