Some nights he stays ‘til closing.
Some he only makes it half an hour.
Every day, I keep thinking?—
this’ll be the night he doesn’t come.
This’ll be the night he finally gives up on me.
He’ll finally get tired of waiting.
He’ll decide I’m a lost cause.
But then he shows.
Every. Fucking. Time.
Taking another piece of my heart.
And here I am,
acting tough andnot giving a shit,
on the same sidewalk,
with a fresh pack of smokes,
one cig twirling between my fingers—unlit?—
with the city humming between us like a blown speaker.
I don’t know why I keep coming back.
Maybe because he does.
Maybe if he senses me on the other side of the glass, he won’t be left waiting alone. Even if I’m just smoke and shadow across the street.
Tonight, the air stings at fifty degrees.
It’s a Janis Joplin kind of night,
a wound she’d scream over a mic?—
eyes shut,
heart breaking,
and numb to the cold
‘cause all the feelings are happening under the skin.
Joplin would’ve sung this night barefoot, drunk, dead sure it would wreck her.
My coat hangs open,
the hem brushing my knees every time a breeze slips by.
Joggers, crewneck, no bra,
