She declares, kissing me
under the winter moon,
in the hoodie she stole from me
which I stole from the Good Will
on 2nd Ave and 88th Street.
Sharing earbuds on the bus,
we are both dying
to be young again,
just old friends with benefits,
talking about music, food too much
with crooked smiles that cover up
the lies we pour for ourselves.
Two old flames, forgetting time,
wondering what the future holds
in its clock hands, the sand seeping out
of the cracks, as we try to hold on,
dancing in the forever of now,
never knowing what's next.