Yesterday I met you on a stairway
and recognized right away
your brutal quietness
and those sparsely-dragged shoelaces
with one tip as pointed as a merciless thought.

I knew that loose smile
and those coffee-stained eyes
tarred with a bright black authenticity
that made me want to forget the waste
of those All-American nights
we spent flipping lit matches into rain puddles
and cutting the locks off bikes that weren’t ours to take.

I had forgotten your easy touch
that worried my mother
and your shrill, hard fingernails
that snapped the spines of lemon wedges
and drowned them in lukewarm bottles
of sweet black Coke.
Do you remember how you used to make me
run to the store at midnight?
My small, flat feet bruised easily from the gouged-out asphalt.
Watching you pour the cold, sharp sugar down your throat.

Your gunshot laugh hit like a well-timed beat
and smelled of threadbare pleasure.
Reminding me of the imprints that your fists made on my temple
when I told you I was going away for the summer.
It didn’t hurt much, and you apologized soon after.
That night you cut my lips with your salt-rinsed teeth
and pushed your fingers into my face
as we waited impatiently for the day to fade.
You didn’t like holding hands, but you let me do it then.

On Fridays we always walked
through those boneless blue alleyways,
shadowed with your purpose
and slicked back with the stunted terror
flashing blindly in my face.
We drew together softly
like new children of the dark.

It ripped me a little when I watched you yesterday,
dragging the back of your hand
along the cool of the staircase rail.
You passed me carelessly and cluelessly,
stepping up stairs
with none of the pride or panic of this new age.
I stopped and turned around,
and I watched you until you left.
Yesterday I started to break apart again.
I’ve always known how to break without bending.