The plot is made best with a
twist, settled neatly behind
a point, neasled between few
words and empty lighters.
I remember there being more
light, but it was probably just
the bite weakening, flowing away
like New York, or the Earth before
we descided it was ours.
The scent of your neck makes me
sin, but thats not the point. I liked
it when we drank last, you mentioned
your plans and I thought you were
pretty. The image of you between
me and Jersey makes me remember
when I was a child, fighting trees with
sticks and calling it war.
Guilt is clever, like ashes leaving its mark
on your jeans, and catching the last wind
uptown, staining the Bay Bridge until Spring,
when we all get to feel the Sun.