A lover who failed

crosses the street, decidedly alone or unalone

depending on the time of day or unday.

He touches the soft hair of pretty girls, blue eyes and brown eyes and eyes that have decidedly shut.

He whisks them along with stories, and champagne, and an arm to lean on when they tire of simply

walking alone.

The lines around his eyes give him away when he looks down, out of the stench

the whole world of fruity smoky perfume and names he has stopped caring to remember, as he glances at his worn leather watch,

every once in awhile considering the time.