I kissed you behind the pharmacy dumpster
while the moon hung up there like a broken molar.
Your coat smelled of rain, frying oil, and old receipts.
Mine smelled like panic and petrol station soap.
We had five euros, one cigarette, and a peach
soft as a bruise in the bottom of your bag.
Somewhere a bus exhaled at nobody.
A man in a suit stepped over a puddle of vomit
like it was a small national border.
You laughed with that cracked-bell laugh of yours
and bit the fruit until juice ran down your wrist
like the saddest luxury in Europe.
Later I rinsed my mouth in a bar toilet
and still tasted you, metal, sugar, and public failure.