he was thin and white
a habit I couldn't break
leaning against the crumbling walls
mind adrift and shoes making
light scuff marks against the cracked tar
he wore a jean jacket every day and at first
I likened him to a *** but once you
see a person so many times
what they wear becomes who they are
and who they are is what you love
I loved the way he shoved his sleeves
up to his elbows and then he'd
push his messy hair out of his face
with these battered hands that were
subtly caked with paint
sometimes you sense a story about the person
and I wondered for a while if
it would be appropriate for me
to insert myself in his chapters
but you know love
and you know interest
and you know you can't help it
so I broke the barrier and shuffled up beside him
he didn't look at me
just stuck his thumb in his pocket and
rested his right shoe back against the wall
he wouldn't speak so I took his photo
stood directly in front of him and
snapped what would go on to be
the first and last time I saw this drifter
he melted away into the mortar
he curled into the sun
my photo held his existence steady and still
until that evening; I lit it ablaze
you may ask why I didn't catch his name
but it is a known fact that smoke can never
and will never
be one to be captured