It was the tattoo at the hollow of your throat, coiling capital letters that read like a warning: cheshire. A label you didn't need, a tiny irony that punctuated every sly (seductive) movement you made -- the curl of your tongue over your bottom lip, the rake of pale fingers through your hair. I wasn't attracted to you because you were beautiful. I was attracted to you because you were dangerous.

You appeared smile first at the bar; asked me to light your cigarettes and then sighed smoke over your shoulder. You wore your cancer well, and I envied you for it. Not everyone is brave enough to die, even slowly. These days we are all in such denial.

And when the music stopped it took me a second too long to notice: you were there, the smile wasn't. You might have been plain without it, except that you weren't, you didn't know how to be, maybe. You leaned close enough for me to learn that you smelled like gingerbread. I wondered if your skin had the same spice.

"Love letters," you purred. "And suicide notes. All the same syllables. Just rearranged."

You took a slow breath. Or maybe it was me.

"You can hurt me if you want."

Of course I wanted. Your solid pieces reeked of vulnerability; your soft places begged to be splintered. I could tear through your lip gloss to the tragedy beneath, suck your pretty flesh purple and raw. I wanted to see your mouth twist and your arms strain. I wanted you to know what helpless felt like. You'd beg for me. You'd beg for more. I could press my thumbs into your cheeks until you couldn't forget me. Forgive me. All of the above.

The subway was empty and you drew pictures in the fog, worlds born from your breath against the cold glass windows. Or maybe not; maybe they were secrets, confessions, lies. There was no use in wondering: you wiped them away when the train stopped and led the way to a one bedroom apartment on the side of town best known for sirens and the morning after. Your boots crushed broken glass all the way up the stairs; the door didn't lock behind us. Before you even told me your name, we took shots from a bottle with no label, and it burned like the look in your eyes. Drink me.

And then you set your hands on mine, your small cold hands, you begged absolution from my mouth. They were sins I'd never know if you'd committed or not. You smiled.

The poetry on my thighs that night went unread; you put your lips to the letters and licked my skin empty (meaningless) again. My hands sweat down your bedpost. Maybe that's why I wasn't bitter about the windows wiped away. You lost my secrets that night, too.

I wonder if, with them, we could have been saved.

I wouldn't recommend it, you said, smoke trickling from your afterthoughts. Cigarettes. They'll kill you slow.

You sighed. Or maybe it was me.

To hell with it. Come here. And were we falling so slowly, or just so far? I could make out every detail -- the freckles on your shoulders, the nail polish not quite removed, your tattoo. And more importantly, the pulse beneath it.

I could make them out, but I could not hold on. Was it you saying my name, or me saying yours? Whose neck did the whimpers fall against?

Please, I said.

Or maybe it was you. I could have been walking backwards all along.

When I woke up, the morning after, you'd disappeared again. The only thing left for me was your smile, and the sirens, getting closer.