We shared
coffee and cigarettes
over long, random conversations.
I drew fake tattoos on your
tanned skin.
You remember the things
I say in passing and
bring them up a month later.
You told me I shouldn’t be afraid,
even though you knew nothing of what
I was afraid of.
Secrets were shared and we
would laugh like little kids and sometimes,
like animals.
We let tiny bits of paper
float inside paper cups.
You tried to spell my name.
But you also told me you couldn’t take
me back anymore.
And I understood.
