You
Count
The
Vertebrae
Of his spine
Between
The wings of
His
Shoulder
Blades,
Pale skin,
Ghostly
In the
Dirty
Half-light.
Eight,
Maybe
Nine
Down,
A little
To
The Left,
It would be
Easy,
No one
Would miss
Him—
Least of all,
You.
Blue-veined
As the stone
You share
He rolls over,
Mumbling
The bruises
Of his
Face
Dark,
Reaching
For you
In his
Sleep,
A scattering
Of cigarette
Butts
And ashes.
You
Slip
Into the
Night,
Leaving
Him with
A broken
Jaw,
Nighthawks
Circling
Overhead,
Fist
Still
Tingling.