they told me on the corner of
chester and shakespeare that

i will learn from my mistakes.
but i am always
wandering in the syntax of
your hands and when we touch

the sweep of your fingertips leave
broken
syllables
on my skin,
strings of pearls on aching flesh.

you stumble
through the dark alleys, a match
in your hand scalding
your wordless fingers.
and they never told me how
hard it is to separate colors and whites
when a beautiful boy dances in

and out
of the edge of your consciousness.

i've never been one for
games of figure eights and hopeless
pirouettes. but this time,

i do not mind