I try to picture him in Prague,
Though I’ve never been there
And am not 100 percent sure he has either.

I piece together a composite Prague for him
To wander in, from random sooty black and white
Snapshots, and film stock laced with jumpy lines.

I see no future here, only  heartache and loss,
And I can neither avert my eyes nor alter my path.
Or to be truthful, I don’t want to.

It seems to me that this overripe friendship
Grows juicier, like the mango he ate this morning,
With kissing and fucking and too much ache.

He’s a Scorpio, 29.
He’s reading aloud to me from his journal
After coming. He has that awkward
Honesty, a rawness, that
Arouses and scares me. He has that
Casual coiled pounce tucked into
His shirt pocket. The cliché is
“A Quiet Intensity”.

Here in New York City
He wolfs down his food,
Belches loudly, and neatly folds
Dirty clothes onto a chair.