When you speak your mouth drips honey and your hands swarm around the breath of your words like bees. And the girls, there are so many, flock towards you, make-up melting down their cheeks from your bonfire heat. As I watch you at parties, one hand dipped in the locks of honey blonde beauties and the other cutting through the smoke in the air with tales of nothingness, I am reminded of a time when it was my skin your hands moved across. When you held the door, when you held my drink, when you held my hips, I mistook you for a gentleman. I always thought your fingers, long and thin, belonged on piano keys. And maybe they did once play something other than the girls that slide through the gaps of your fingers like soapsuds. And maybe there once was a fleeting second when they lingered on the flesh of someone who loved you back. And maybe you once were brave. Maybe. s.f.