she swore by her five inch heels
that the city lights ran through her veins.
her mother complained about
how she strutted through the doors smelling
like my neck.
i told my father about the way
she smiles when i call her “my little darling” in
cold hours of 2am when she rolls onto my shoulder.
i told my mother about how she rubs my spine with her paint-brush
fingers, hoping to turn my back into a starry night by
van gogh; she’s my shooting star.
her diaphragm syncs to the bass kick of “wanderlust”
and i think i fell in love with her adventure; it’s
not even the weekend yet.

she asked me about my past and the only thing i could tell her
was that the devil is paying me double to see you smile.