Last night:
	I spoke with a man from former Communist Syria.

Last night:
	I spoke to love, spoke for some time, for the last time, for some time, or maybe forever. 

Last night:
	The man from former Communist Syria. 
	showed me images of government issued notebooks. Bland and uniform, Hafez al-Assad on each cover.
	showed me images of school children. Bland and uniform. There he was, first row, second from the right.
	told me of the 30,000 dead at the hands of the regime.
	children with their jaws shot off.
	told me of the unity, comfort, and community.
	ten cent falafel.
	told me I look like a Communist, with my glass of wine and cigarette.
    	
	I gave him my copy of the Communist Manifesto.
	He said I was so beautiful and calm when we met all those months ago.
	Tonight my eyes, swollen and bloodshot from the tears.
	Unfazed by his compliments.

	I took him from the bar, to a cherry blossom. Blooms clinging to the trunk and branches.
	He brought me home. Exiting the car, I felt his hand on my back, firmly pressed to say "stay."
	I didn't stay.
    	I didn't look back.

Last night:
	I looked back at love, looked for some time, for the last time, for some time, or maybe forever.
    	It didn't stay.
	It looked back.