There was no anticipation this time - only a sense of foreboding.
The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound,
and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn,
like a burned-out match.
It was brief, but beautiful. We kissed between words;
our mouths shushed when moulding the roundness of vowels,
and your lips dangled there like an ellipsis.
One night, whilst my parents were away,
I sat out on the patio, listening to Nina Simone,
blowing smoke into a glass of whiskey.
I savoured the burn unfurling in the back of my throat,
and my voice cracked like the ice as I sang along.
I swear I saw a shooting star.