I see you on the platform, half in shade,
a cigarette before your words could land,
bruise-blue smoke, an envelope you made
to seal your half-formed dreams inside your hand.

Then there you are again, the leaning wall,
your legs apart, its veins of cracked decay,
still gloating at your clever games, and all
the monstrous truths Jerusalem would say.

Your face, a silver veil, conceals the sparks,
those night bus elegies that twist away;
and every time you vanish into dark,
I die again, as if it were today.