His bulletproof boots
decorated with wet mud, dried blood
trampled fields of flowers
fourteen years before her.
She, a cloud of fluff and rain,
was his first shower.
He, a kick of crack *******,
was her fifteenth.
Every departure had her,
tasting of his cigarettes,
teary-eyed against his shoulders.
Every mile of distance had him,
singing to her songs,
pulsing to another woman’s skin.
Tonight, with their hands interwoven,
his lips parted open,
sweating as if birthing a confession,
her smile lingers, glistening

like snow nobody has walked on.