if she closes her eyes and
parts her lips she can imagine
that the wind playing with her
earlobe is his tongue, expressive
and alive, wet with his saliva and
warmwarmwarm.

his voice, silver, riding down the
hills like white horses.

--and, oh, his eyes, eyes like
violets, wet with rain and
tears--
it's 4:20am, he whispers.
let's ride on the subway
and watch the lights and
pretend we're in a magical
kingdom.

she says, it's 4:21am, and
you're already gone.