The buzzed people
burn out on the street.
It's four a.m.
and cold toes are leaving imprints
on the concrete face
where the drunks and the homeless
beg for help
and for the past to change.

You, me, and every one we've met,
lean on the side of the tattooed bar,
smoking cigarettes that stain our lips,
slurring words that escape our souls.

You're wearing
Black Chuck Taylor All-Stars,
as we stand underneath
the black, starry sky.
You tell me,
as you put out the cherry
with your wet thumb,
that, "I busted my cherry
while riding my bike.
I hit a bump, then another,
and another."

We kiss and you whisper,
"It sounds better than the truth, right?"
I feel overwhelming sadness,
as I look at your freckles,
your speckled irises,
and I want to believe
the manufactured ignorance
that the world offers
and you take,
saying, "Of course, love."