She didn’t need a lot of milk in her cereal, just enough to make it damp. Come to think of it, she was like that with mostly everything. Only needed the bare minimum to survive or to even be satisfied. This may have been why I loved her, or maybe the fact that she catwalked in the middle of a ghetto. Or maybe it was because she smoked cigarettes in the winter on her porch in a sundress.

Bathed in the glow of street lamps
We catwalked through the red dusty streets
With short sleeves
And even shorter shorts
Displaying our scars to the night and the stars
The atmosphere was liquid and dry
Quenching our thirst for change
And parching our egos

We barely remembered our names
We were ****-faced  off of life