I was planning on writing a story, but I've been so busy lately (aka lazy) that I really only have time for a poem. They come more easily to me than stories, I guess.
The Third Man Who Heard Me Cry
Can you give me a last rooftop midnight,
Rain-washed sky so somber over your eyes.
Know what the grace of your hands can ignite,
Languid bodies racked with so many lies.
Incense smoke flows through us like silk,
Subtle laughter in this last night.
Behind your touch fire white as milk,
Cry for the dying of the light.
The raindrops are soaking us through,
Pearls undone and hit pavement.