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He don’t hang around no more.
He don’t wear those dirty old black boots no more.
He don’t.
He don’t switchblade like he did before.
He don’t drift like the virgin snow.

If I could be anything in this world that shines
I would be a switchblade pressed hotly against your thigh.
At the top of the stairs like a pink kimono hanging over the rails.
He didn’t notice.
He was taking in the smoke like a French inhaler with his headphones on.
He had a beautiful tiger painted onto his arm but he can’t remember where it came from.
No, he can’t quite recall the other marks on his body,
how they got there either.
There were daggers drawn on his skin with a magic marking pen.
Lines were bruisy, stance was woozy and his head hung down.

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