You have temptation written all over you. I watch you light cigarettes and I am captivated by the shape of your hands, the curl of smoke that traces your words like subtitles. You are apathy and bad habits, the kind of guy I know I'll love to regret.

You're probably a mistake. And I want you anyway.

(I don't need you to love me, after all; salvation is so out of style.)

But then again, I never expected this piece of you, either, couldn't have foreseen the purr of your voice (--what? I asked, and you said This --) before your mouth was on mine and I was aching, aching.

You taste like every promise I've ever broken.

I could have written you poetry, but you are not that kind of boy. Where I am monologues and origami, you are neon and one-night stands. I was never looking to change your life.

And this is us; fleeting, constant, now. I don't know your middle name, or your favorite color, or if you like the Beatles. I haven't told you that I want a tattoo, or that I'd love to be a bartender, or that you have beautiful eyes.

I probably won't tell you.

You probably don't care.

Because you are not one for polish or for pretense: you come sharp edged and sure of yourself, and you walk away gunslinger sway and swagger. (I've never once caught you looking back.) You are the antithesis of everything I thought I wanted.

And I am oh-so-very-addicted.