dirt on our breath

it was dirt
that's what he always says it tastes like.
I agree, sipping in a grimace,
but it's a rite, a silent vigil on this corner
where she and I
first found the best cup ever.
sticky with syrup and spilled sugar.
sticking to our boiling palms
and we whispered with dirt on our breath.

she must have only gone there for me
and I must have only gone for her.
for it seems we never accidentally meet
on that corner anymore.
but the fumes still steal up my nose
and they re-enter what i remember
of her whisper
with dirt on her breath.
march 31, 2006