i used to listen to you. i believed. on the angry-porch. in the stark light of this city in which i used to hate to live. alone. loving some strange version of small lines of strangers posing as men. i didn't know weren't you. when i never knew you were. something. to imagine. some song that had nothing to do with coffee shops. or words. or fantasies. or the cappuccino memory of your voice. sneaked into the folds of my spangled red scarf. into the inside bend of your thighs. into the safe spaces of the collar of your jacket. on the tube. between stations. or lifetimes. of snapshots and ticket prices. and all of those stupid silly moments when i fell so. when i couldn't have ever. when i never even knew.