The smoky-eyed man with the smoke-flavored lips. He was the kind who never slept; always up all night rapping at bars or up all night lighting a cig. There was so much wonder that followed him: why did he choose to bleach his soft hair? How could his gummy smile light up an entire room? Why were his chocolate brown eyes full of all that sad, and how could I erase it?

It was too late by the time I realized I wanted him. Something in me wanted to conquer him; to write out his long-life story so many times I knew it like the back of my hand. He let me in, but he didn’t open his doors. I was another fleck of dust consuming his bedside; I couldn’t proceed.

But sometimes he’d pull my bone-y bum onto his lap, touch my jaw line with those skinny, girlish fingers, and stare at me in childlike astonishment. “What do you want from me?” He’d ask, shivering in the heat. “I have nothing left. I didn’t have anything when you came. So what the hell do you want?”

I’d give him a hard look and touch his back through that old t-shirt of his. He stunk of cigarettes and looked like a nightmare. Though there was some incredible beauty within the disaster. “I want you.”

He’d shake his head sadly and spread a wry smile across his chapped lips. “That’s all I have left. You want that, too?”

And when I’d selfishly nod, the older boy would laugh hysterically,

and then cry.

“I have nothing left.”

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