Sometimes wishes do come true.

There’s this urge to reach out and leave my fingerprints on your face,

like a little, delicate claim to that moment of your life

because I don’t know if you’ll remember me in ten years

if I don’t at least try now.


I think I’m in love.


I don’t burn the small hours of the morning with just anyone and

you seem more than willing to put aside that cigarette to

talk to me about your theories on God.

Do you share like this with anyone else?


I think you are too.


You pull smiles from my lips so easily and I almost don’t catch

them in time to dim them down; you probably

already know, but I want to clutch onto this game of a secret

for just five more minutes.


The thought scares me. It’s been too long.


We could be astronomical. Already we’re stuck by that weird

bonding chemistry of sarcasm and loneliness born of

not having found an equal. Both of us wandered into

the same gin joint and locked eyes.


This may be it.

The End

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