We met in an airport opening of mouths
with broken teeth and shackled intentions
on the edge of the lights of a dead man's
legacy. The lights burned out, as, in
the back of a taxi cab northbound, we made
our hands into birds and let them fly out
into that devouring city where we'd last
slept and searched 53rd st. for a sign.
There was never one.

She spoke in rain and said she'd never see
me again after that night of close vulnerabilities
and rust trails. I said she was ******
wrong. She was right. I said I'd never stop
loving her, but I already had, for when you
know what's right "I'll miss you" and lips to a
forehead is the only goodbye you have in your
inventory.

Turning to wave, you were already a ghost, bled
into a crowd of ghosts, and I was gone.