he smokes loose poems

& flicks the words like ashes

'til they gather about my feet,

his second-hand metaphors catching in my throat.

sometimes in the smoke we kiss;

& he tastes of too many books,

of other men's thoughts.

and sometimes we don't;

we only almost touch,

like the space between letters.

quietly, he mouths me verses,

hums philosophy like a love song,

"the one thing we seek to forget is ourselves."

so we love like run on sentences,

hoping to lose our meanings in each other.