and cornflower cups on a silver tray
tea cooling

your mouth curled on the brim
across a small table, eyes

as hard to read, as out of reach
as books in library stacks, open

only to the initiated, to the man in the trench coat
you met on the road in the rain

his smile set on high beam. You want to remember
how the city insisted on light

in every window. Neon

burning the night through and your music
spilling its Bombay Sapphire

into the perfect hollow
between your breasts

your legs
and for the first time

the last time
the smell of him, the taste of him, the sound of his voice

even the last glimpse of him turning
even the blood on your lip

and god never seems to do anything and
you’re so tired of walking down roads in the rain

in the dark
his smile still comes back to you