It clings to your fingers as you stand there smoking your cigarette. It dribbles from your chin as your eyes shine like those of a cat’s as cars speed past like bullets. When it drips and drools and drips again from that pretty little wide-open mouth, I’m not far behind. When it tumbles to the ground along with the ash from your cancer stick, my hands are quick to grab and twist but when you turn I’m not there. I never was. There’s confusion in the way you move. It creeps to your face and spreads from your eyes like the legs of a spider but no one sees it because no one sees because people are people and people don’t care until it’s too late. When you suck down the smoke you feel safe in your bubble. When you walk until your feet don’t touch the ground and the city swims miles beneath, you can’t help but feel it tickle your belly but such thoughts bring danger and these nights are dangerous enough. Maybe you’re looking for a way out, but you don’t get that privilege, honey. There’s a length of wood in my hand. It hits the bars of the railing setting your teeth on edge. I’m just a kid, though. I’m just your lover when you feel like it so I can do what I want as you stand there not knowing who you are or where you’re heading. There’s a bridge where kids throw bricks down onto the road below. Sometimes they smash through windscreens and sometimes they bounce on the ground just the same as your cigarette does when it slips from your fingers. Sometimes, when you’re not looking, life has a habit of leaving you out of its plans. It makes you feel less than zero, but the loss of their version of life is nothing to mourn. It’s not much of anything. Moving from one foot to the other, the traffic keeps shooting. Sneaking back and forth on tiptoes, I keep pulling your hair and pinching your arms, but when you spin around ready to cuss me out, I’m not there. I never was.