“Yeah, I’ll help you,” he replied slowly, the wet smack of gum punctuating each word. I’d seen him five, maybe six times before today – the best friend of one of my tenants. I sighed in relief and opened my mouth to thank him before he lifted a hand to silence me.

“It’ll cost ya, though.”

Smack, smack. Without turning in my direction, he let out a snicker at the notebook in front of him. Smack, smack. He turned the page and smiled as I shook my head, exasperated at his antics. Of course he’d want to be paid – not that he would know, but I was broke.

“I don’t have any money.” It came out flat and bored. Maybe he’d do it for free; it wouldn’t be the first time. He snorted and glanced up at me, his eyes a brown so intense it was almost violet, like he wasn’t quite human.

“That’s not what I want.”

Smack, smack. I stared back into his steady gaze, his eyes sparking with amusement at my confused expression. He looked away and raised his thick eyebrows. Smack, smack. I felt like shaking him into sobriety, but settled for crossing my arms over my breasts and giving him a glare.

“Needs more death,” he drawled, not bothering to even look at me. Defeated, I gave in and asked. Poet humor.

“How much?”

The notebook shifted as he turned and stared at me again. There was a burning hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with attraction.

“A kiss.”

I almost laughed, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

“Are you serious?”

His eyes faded, light and life extinguished. It was un-nerving as hell – he was right there, but nobody was home. His lips twisted into an arrogant smirk.

“Quite.”

Smack, smack. I felt heat spreading up my cheeks, suddenly grateful for my reddish complexion. The life flooded back into those expressive eyes, and I blinked, watching him pull the tie out of his ponytail. He gave his head a nonchalant toss to let out the damp tangles of hair. It took a lot of effort for that to not look feminine, and he didn’t even bother trying. Embarassed, I looked down at his sun-kissed calf and down to the cross inked into his ankle. The silence grew 

until he giggled and tilted his head to the right, a winsome, teasing look on his face. A poet’s smile.

“Well, do we have a deal?”

I shrugged hopelessly. Hoenstly? I’d do it, but not right away. Besides, I had questions of my own for the poet.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“She ain’t here and she can kiss as many girls as she likes.”

His voice had grown deeper, slower, quieter; his eyes drowning in desire. I stared away from that expanse of lust, studying a single bead of sweat crawling down his temple. Smack, smack.

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” he continued, watching me expectantly. The heat was clinging, just humid enough so sweat wouldn’t evaporate.

“Just an innocent little kiss.”

Could I trust him? More importantly, could I trust myself? As if he read my mind, he trailed the back of his nails up my arm – to the elbow, shoulder, neck… I pulled away and looked at him again. He looked confident, arrogant, and somehow, innocent. I swallowed my pulse and looked down at the half-written poem in front of him. Smack, smack. Poet’s meter.

“How old are you?”

I was proud of my tone. It came out coy, mocking; I’d have to use it on more guys. He blinked at the question and giggled again.

“Twenty. Twenty-one in a few months.”

He stuck his tounge out at me briefly before yanking the pen out of my hand to write down another line.

“Damn.”

My pen scritched across the paper as he struck out the line, his flirtatious smile fading into apathy. A few seconds, a few more wet smacks, and he returned his attention to me – a quick up-down glance across my body. I looked back at him the same way – tanned skin, his muscles visible through his faded black shirt. Smack, smack.

“I’m out of shape.”

The heat was gone, and for the briefest of seconds, his façade shifted to be frank, a bit confused, and slightly self-deprecating. I didn’t think he was that far out of shape: his chest was at least forty inches of solid muscle. He gave a nervous laugh, wiping his forehad with the back of his hand. Another facial shift – lonely, insecure, like a freshman boy out on his first date. I wanted to hold him close until that cocky grin and teasing shine came back out.

“Not really. You look good.”

“Really?” He seemed hopeful again, like my words were the only thing keeping him going. Smack, smack.

“Yeah.”

I reached out and took his long-fingered hand in mine, giving a small smile to confort him. His features shifted yet again – like a puppy waiting for its master to dole out a scrap of affection. I giggled, tracing my thumb across the veins on his hand. Poet’s hands.

“So you’ll kiss me?”

I nodded briefly, and he grinned, displaying off-white teeth and dimples. He had the most vivid expressions of anyone I’d ever known; my heart beat faster as he leaned forward, the tips of his fingers tilting up my chin. I licked my lips and closed my eyes, wanting to taste him on my skin , smell his hair…

“Yes…” I whispered, heart in my throat and butterflies in my stomach. He gave a knowing chuckle and pulled his hand free from mine. An eternity passed, then another. Smack, smack.

I opened my eyes to see him writing again, focused so intently that I had to wonder if anything had happened, like our shared tender moment only existed in my imagination. Without looking up at me, he giggled and spoke again, his voice neutral and bored.

“Dream, scream, stream, machine, seem… leam?”

Smack, smack.

“I was just messin’ with you. Sheen, beam, scream…”

He trailed off and looked at me, his dark locks framing his eyes. The tinge of purple was gone, and I frowned at his playful, mocking look. He’d won a game I hadn’t known we were playing, and he looked as contented as a cat in the cream. Sensing my frustration, he stuck out his tounge again, winked, and brushed his hand over mine for a timeless second. Smack, smack.

“We’re just not meant to be, darlin’.”

A giggle, and he returned to his poetry, lost in poet’s dreams. I rose to my feet and walked to the door. Instinct told me to turn as his arms circled my waist. Turning a little to face him, I waited for taunting words, the cool bronze know in my hands. He leaned into me, and kissed the top of my head. A poet’s kiss.

“Everything’s going to be alright.”

He giggled, let me go, and closed the door abruptly in my face. I shook my head – a poet’s way of telling the truth, I guess. Taking a reciept out of my pocket and another pen, I laughed long and hard: after all, I was a poet too. Ten lines, three stanzas, two almost complete strangers, one shared poem-in-motion. Kneeling, I slid the paper under the door, and watched him pick it up before I straightened and walked back home – a poet’s goodbye.