A city incomplete. Orange vibrance directs every corner. Its
edges are rough, each turn of the
wheel testing my shocks
as asphalt ebbs and flows
beneath me. Each turn is chaos,
each location new and different. A city lost among itself. Still, each
turn brings with it cobblestone roads and ancient paintings, museums and tourists and beggers, some sitting under bridges, huddled around
a fire. I burn, too, teeth still chattering,
at home among the chaos. A city with plenty of past, looking forward. It
isn't hard to relate.

in crowding. the air swells, too
big to fit the most developed lungs.
Isolation creeps between the living,
making any movement seem
well beyond possible. Here,
I, and likely you, feel both
alone and smothered, helpless and
aware
that sometimes no effort is too
great. Soon, but not too
soon, hopefully, we
will be enveloped.

We smoked.
Half a cigar, shared between brothers, that one of us brought back from Cuba, leaning
on the cars of strangers. The three of us friends since. . .
forever, as far as I'm concerned.
We stood, hesitant to talk, just as
I'm hesitant to
type.
Eyes averted, we whispered,
as not to be heard by each other, about
beginnings and endings. Slow inhales,
even slower exhales, half of which we wished
would get caught up in the stagnant
air that still holds me in that moment. I cracked
jokes, because that's what I do, and they both
laughed, uncomfortably,
eyes meeting only smoke that is still slow
to dissipate. Conversation cut by
coughs, we smoked
all that there was and then some,
scared to retreat, to return knowing
what we now know.

A car speeds down the highway;
an aching heart beats on despite constant
complaints. The car veers left on a straight road, tires spinning on gravel;
the heart housed in, surrounded by
disease. Slow, plodding, it beats a little slower
with every passing day. Momentum
carries the car, spinning then rolling,
bits and pieces flying in all directions; the heart grows weaker still, others keep coming because a dying heart shouldn't beat alone. The car takes one final flip,
settling upside down, glass broken, seatbelts still in place, dents, scratches, scrapes and newfound bruises; the heart is slower still,
pained peace settling until, veins showing, baggy eyes, wrinkled hands, it stops. The car, leaving black marks on straight highway; the heart leaving a slightly different imprint. It all
stops,

tonight we reminisced
about pets loved and lost and a few that we
found again. and though
decades
have gone by, and we have travelled roads
with different destinations, we're still brought
back by the fur babies that made our
home whole. our source the same,
we
will always be held together by at
least that much

I know
that every cliché is true.
And every comparison, like the one about
your eyes shining lonely but brilliant like the moon, well, it is too. The one about your kindness,
a scout helping an old woman cross the road. The one about your brilliance, leaving me feeling both blessed and a little intimidated, yes that one too.
Of course, the one
about your smile
and the whole room, like a christmas tree; yes that one too.
Thank you,
for granting me some time
with a white winged being;
but of course that one is true,
too.