frantic twists of tongue

in the backseats of trains.

we both looked so the same.

and it had been 3 and ½ months

(you helped me count the days

on entwined fingers).

you touched me with the same lust,

I gave in with the same reluctant sigh,

and you tasted the same:

like the same four addictions:

other girls,

vodka,

newports,

weed.

there's nothing elegant about obsession.

we both looked so the same.