You spend your time flirting with death
and glass-half-empty girls at art exhibits you have seen before.
You hope each time that this girl’s barely-there pulse might just jump start yours
even though you know that their heart stopped trying
somewhere between the last time someone told them they loved them and your half-hearted hello.
Even though you know you lost yourself somewhere between staring at old paintings and her watercolor eyes.
You hope maybe her lips, that you already know will taste like coffee and maybe a little bit like bourbon to ease the pain, will breathe air back into the lungs you ruined
when you turned to nicotine because you have never been able to swallow pills
and you have always been afraid of guns,
but maybe you’re hoping that this girl will be more bullet than girl.
But maybe you’re hoping this glass-half-empty girl will finally make you full.