He likes to sleep on the floor. He says the hollow cement against his stomach feels like home. He likes his beer through a straw and his pills in his nose. I found him for the first time smoking a cheap cigarette outside some run down venue in center city. He had dirt under his nails & dry blood on his thighs when I asked him why. He said "I like to watch the cars pass anxiously by with their windshield wipers on high." He doesn't believe in sidewalks or seatbelts and he swears the only place for him is somewhere deep in Hell. He never looks into my eyes, because he's afraid of the love that overflows them. He has track marks all down his forearms and jail style tattoos all down his calves. We don't go swimming because he knows he'll stay underwater until his gentle airways come to a close. Now I'm sitting outside, smoking a cigarette in the rain. I can feel him passing by with his racing mind on high. I swear he tastes just like loneliness & sin but I'd trade every second of this life just to be stitched into the depths of his filthy skin.