Part I

We were sitting in a dark apartment,
only fourteen, yet
drunk as soldiers marching
home from war.
I don't drink, but even I
was drunk
on the sight of her.

So beautiful, so
mesmerizing –
her lips, and eyes,
and her heart, the
loveliest of all.

Her eyes met mine,
her eyes blushed.
An empty beer bottle
in her hand,
another one spinning
before her.

It pointed at her.

She smiled at me;
everyone faced me.
"Truth," she said, grinning,
and a harmless game
became
so much more.

"When do you want
to die?"
My whisper was for her
ears alone.

She was surprised.
"23 is perfect," she said,
with her smile,
"And out with a bang. But,
not before 18 –
that's too young."

I guess I should have said
something.
But we were only 14, and
twenty-three
was a number far away.

I said nothing, and
the bottle started spinning.