no snow, but gravely
the night marches on into black
smooth, without a fight
the way it does in winter.
no snow makes the streets feel wider
though your cheeks look as pink
as they do against whiteness.
you've had too much
and stayed too long,
layering sweat by the minute
to a glaze of half-lidded hope.
you watched a fly on the lampshade
vibrate with each clap of bass,
remembering you wanted a cigarette.
your bones are burning up,
aching to get out of your skin.
your feet find the stairs blindly
a calf-stumble but with a sort of grace.
people everywhere,
tripping over their own echoes
laughs cutting the ice to knives.
but they don't know anything yet
because you're still cupping your hands,
peach slices of your lips gripping toward the flame.
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