Ehran (Aaron, but not to me)

My hair smells like cigarettes, but no worse than your fingers. 

The mattress on the floor squeaking every time you roll over 

and pull me closer.

I don’t know if I’ll miss you yet,

like the way you talk about Ocean City. 

Your friends are there and your reason to be in this country,  

now you live in a basement 

with a drag queen looking for a dream. Between shifts at a restaurant 

too lowly to name. 

Frank Sinatra playing 

in the car as you drive me home, shaking, 

tapping ash out the window. 

You think we might be soulmates, so we will find each other again.

You’ll go to that bar often, and I only talked to you, 

because you reminded me of him.