we might as well be insects
everything melted away on those rooftops, liquified
and we were floating on, barely noticing, too enthralled
with half-thought out theories. with vodka kises.
rush of electricity like lines running through my thin-skin
each time we'd stare each other down, silently
daring the other to look away, to break away
ruin this perfection shared with cheep beers
and months of a dark, heated needing
burning brightly in our throats and lips.
but now, after all this time, of my own adventures
toying with the idea of a similar feeling felt through
another human being not you,
i've concluded the rest a fool's-gold replacement.
you brush past my lips, lingering instead
your hands on my shoulderblades a few minutes
prolonged with your skin on my skin
just ot make me miss it more.
i almost lost my left eye when i was 18 months old,
dog attack, they called me lucky,
but now i almost wish he'd taken it with him
so instead of noticing this scar people would assume
i was always winking, and you
could assume i was on to your joke.
but silence remains, as you follow
your path, the one i can't navigate, though
not from lack of trying, i've not slept in weeks
trying to divulge any sense of direction from you
to no avail. the solo soldier,
beautiful lush philosopher, crazy man, lion,
my secret-keeper,
booze-induced serial-kisser.
this is perhaps one of the only debates
between our smirking faces
i've ever won, though victory feels faux
when it's by default
when i can't find you, no matter how many rooftops i stand upon.