and the pavement the gentle grip of your fists
hidden under tables; wish this cigarette was your
tulip lips and the ash your words emptied out in the
blood letting of your mind, and that the wind would carry
your scent were there a way to put you in words. And I'd lick
a dollar bill if it'd remind me of your skin. I'd be fond of other
humans if only the world didn't have you in wandering through it.