In fresh snow, you plant your can of beer while I light a smoke talking about my favourite serial killers. It’s far too late, and we should be in bed, but not together, unfortunately, even though my eye for detail concerning the crimes of Jeffrey Dahmer impresses you for sure. The acid in my belly swirls and swirls like a galaxy while you keep looking at women on your phone comparing your flesh to theirs. You always lose. It’s not that you’re ugly. Not even close. But they’re smooth and pert and blemish free, and these days that’s what beauty seems to be. It’s ridiculous of course, but you never listen to me. Even when I tell you that you’re the one I think of every time I close my eyes before falling asleep. You think I’m just doing my best to fuck you. Yeah, it had crossed my mind, but I’m not quite as empty as that. It’s that you do something to me. Your atoms and the way they align. Your chemicals and how they bubble and fizz at my fingertips. Your sadness. Yeah, your sadness and how your soul weighs so heavy. It speaks to me. It caresses my own broken soul in ways I’d never imagine. There have been other women, but there will only be you. You know that, right? It’s started snowing again. Looking up at the clouds, we stop thinking and catch each other’s eyes. Sticking out your fingers, I suck on my cigarette and smile at how surprised you act when a single flake of snow lands upon the eyelashes of your right eye causing you to madly blink. For a second, the world stops turning, and there’s a smile on my face, and when you’ve composed yourself, you look at me and laugh. Does this mean you really love me? Does this mean you care? When you put your hand in mine, I drop the cigarette and hold your gaze. It lasts only a second or so, but in those few seconds, the night lasts forever.