you look so small,

so careless, cross legged

on a fourth-floor balcony

on the rough side of the city.

how long did it take you

to get here from the suburbs?

(how much did it take you

to leave?) you love

the nicotine sunrises and

the whiskey-sour dawns,

burning a memory of

bitter youth into your temples.

call me soft, call me wretched —

wake up to me on

sunday mornings. you are

so irreparably reckless,

selling your body on the street corners,

and you still look for god

in the streetlights.