You say I look like Boston on a cloudy winter afternoon. That I carry skyscrapers on my skin, and murder in my hair. As you trail your finger along my skin I wonder how many blocks you just demolished. I play hopscotch with your cheap whiskey words, the kind you drink all night but never get drunk.
You see, I know who you are. There's paint on your shirt, hidden in the creases along with the scent of the woman you think I don't know you fuck. You flash me your Jimmy McNulty smile like fish bait, and I put it in the same closet where I stow away all the gasping hypoxic promises you gave me as homecoming gifts.
I play along. I always play along, because I am no different. This was never about love. I left love stranded at a ghost station in Tremont. We are two bodies cosying up in sheets of emptiness. You just don't know it yet. You can't find the home you lost in somebody's arms between someone else's legs.
Now everytime you let your hollowness inside mine, your 'iloveyous' sound more like lambs at slaughter, begging for it to feel real, to feel something, anything apart from the emptiness; but you don't. Everytime you pull my hair you shake loose murders that were never solved, of all the relationships we took to the alleys just before dawn, shot them dead point blank and never looked back. Like my moans, they fall onto my skin and yours, crimes that have no name, just blurry faces.
As you wake up to a text message at 3 a.m, slip out of the bed trying not to wake me up, and shut the door behind you with a soft click, I faintly remember how another man I loved once told me how he tried but could never really love Boston.