it was night

late

around three maybe

i remember that much

i remember the wind

playing footsie with me

as i sat

extremities dangling off the porch edge

lips dangling off yours

you felt like hot cider on my tongue

sticky and wet

i think that’s the way you’ll die

twirling me around your fork

like i’m cheap al dente pasta

you purchased at the corner market

not for the taste

but just

to fill

the emptiness.