He wore no cloak that evening,
just department store cologne
and a crooked smile that sparkled
like moonlight on old bone.
I ordered red wine, he chose water—
said centuries of drinking lose their thrill.
His fingers, when they touched mine,
felt like autumn's first chill.
Between courses, he told stories
of pharaohs and lost kings,
while my soup grew cold, untasted,
as I hung on darker things.
He knew all the best jokes
about last breaths and final words,
and laughed so warm and human
it felt absurd.
When the check came, he insisted—
"I've collected quite a sum."
His wink held endless winters
and all the years to come.
He walked me home through empty streets,
our footsteps out of sync.
His goodbye kiss tasted like forever,
made me stop to think:
Love and Death, perhaps they're twins,
both stealing breath away—
but only one keeps calling back
to ask about my day.