On Bad Lives and Worse Ideas

Bitter

iced coffee in hand
cigarette locked between lips
outside a coffee shop
no one ever visits
but
us

patiently, I watched the pen
forced to dance, in cursive
your grace falling on the leaves
then the rain stopped you, mid-sentence
something about 'eyes-on-eyes'
coincidentally, you looked up
instantly, we were too
confirming what I knew of your chestnut eyes
both burned of the brightest red, like your lips
where the cigarette was
where his tongue will be
but know this
mine too had fire
albeit faint, of the blue seas and the skies
where in the middle, forever, we are
fire-on-fire

often, you almost burned what you wrote
out of doubt, out of hate,
out of superfluous rhymes and measure
without understanding
passion tends to frustrate
without regard for paper bruised by ink 
without love for the fragments of your soul
always, I'll save them from your fire
out of selfishness
for you
were in every sentence, word, and letter
and with honesty kid,
you were destined to be immortal
from the start
unlike me
-mory that fails

years went on
I fueled you with words
(I could use)
turned hard-hitting lines
that made you weep
that made you bleed
that made you
the better one
in return, you gave me happiness
though fleeting
but enough

now, as I'm reading your life
on hardbound with your picture at the back,
dedicating fiction to the man
your fiery lips are kissing
I'm stuck, still writing
your name
on fragile napkins
outside the same coffee shop
where your shadow used to be
drunk on your cup of coffee