life360

we walk the road where darkness

has learned to be patient,

the streetlights surrender

and the night resumes its original shape.

our footsteps echo and reverberate a question

the hill has been asked many times before.

he invites me carelessly

as if desire were not a ritual;

as if a cigarette was not a small vow

spoken sideways through our teeth.

my bones say yes before i even reply

fire blooms in his hands.

cheekbone and a loose strand of hair -

beauty made temporary.

the darkness competes with flickers of light to touch his face, yearning to surround him completely

the smoke comes through my lips

filling the space where words might go,

turning my breath into a confession

I inhale what he has touched and exhale something entirely unnamed.

the hill rises, indifferent.

cigarette turns to ash

"time to turn around"