Interlocking messily, the sofa 
is flattened as your 
breath grows sharper and 
our elbows knock over the vodka.
The two of us claim the carpets, so drunk
the air gleams and you
brush hair over slight shoulders 
looking like an angel.
This isn't love (what is?)
Tomorrow, I'll forget how you
were wreathed in smoke, offering me 
cigarettes. Laying against 
my shoulder. Crying about 
John. The bastard. 
You say you aren't a dyke. 
I don't believe you; empty words 

mean nothing tonight.