My shoes weren't made for these walks.
Yet they hold together with the pressure I put
in every step.

I saw you again in a black sedan.
Your face was cold rubber.
I ran the other way, still choked
by your glossy red lips, among the hollow things
I spawn over the earth.

I see your face on every passerby, pressing in,
and I keep on these walks
like dad's mornings, hooked,
while lamenting every puff.

The last time I really saw you,
your face was warm skin.
I held my breath,
wanting to starve the brain that recognizes.

And there is one upon the earth.