You're that nicotine high
the one that leaves me dizzy and light
as the smoke leaves my lips
and fades off in delicate semi-transparent trails into the mid-October wind.
You're the taste of cheap wine
on Brooklyn rooftops
staining my lips with shades of deep reds and soft purples,
landing strips for your kisses.
You're lazy Sunday mornings
spent in bed
quietly watching the sun peer through the shades
greeting our bare skin
hidden under the sheets.
You're the long walks
down chipped, dirty pavements
with street lights illuminating the night
and city lights becoming our northern star.