I am in hell. Literally. The bar is like a tomb, the air is stale and heavy, the customers are cruel. There is alcohol and debauchery, and if this were the 1920s the police would have busted down the doors by now. I'm fucking loving it.

Really, this is my element. Don't know why I ever go out in the sun, when this is my world. I am the light down here, and I love to dim myself, with oil stains and dirty thoughts, and words. Words. That's why I'm here, you know. Words fuck me, leave me breathless and open and I love them so damn much I don't think I have room for anything else. I do open-mike poetry here once a week. Really, if you feel strongly enough about it, anything can have an edge. Give me a week, and I could have an erotic spelling bee set up. I make this my edge, my haven from the world. I make this my altar.

I get up there, in front of everyone, and I get ready to speak. I have it all picked out: a new poem, written this week, some old ones for my friends, dedications that they will never hear. They never come down to the bar. I have my first one all ready, I'm setting myself up, arranging my shoulders on top of my spine, and he walks in. Just like that. Too damn easy.

He just walks in, and he's shorter than almost everyone. People that short are not allowed to be confident. People that short are not allowed to catch my interest. But he does. He's wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, a shirt. I don't know what he's wearing. He's looking around, looking at the bar and the people, and then he looks at me. He smiles, like he knows me or something. Don't do that, boy, you don't know who you're messing with. He looks at me, and I change my mind. I switch the poem in my head. He asked for it, didn't he?

"Don't touch me," I spit out. He winces. Yeah, people have that kind of power in their voices, if they want to use it. Watch me use it.

This is my favorite one, never performed, only crooned to lost love or new possibility. "You scald my hands when you hold them. I'm on fire, and it's because of you. I burn candles with my fingers when I think of you, matchless. You firebug."

I'm done. I see him looking at me, and in all the time I spoke I didn't take my eyes away from him, so we're pretty evenly matched. I keep going, more and more, poems I promised I'd never tell anyone. They are my soul, my secret volcano, my heart, and chainsaws, and whips, and chocolate, they are me. I spit the words at him, harder and faster and stronger the farther I go. Because isn't that what you do? Isn't that what you do when you see a stranger in a bar, and your eyes meet across a crowded room? Most people take their clothes off. I'm taking my skin off.

I watch his face change as I speak. I see him watching me, and I wonder if he knows what I'm doing for him. He seems like he does, he seems like he knows what words mean to me, but probably he doesn't. People are weird like that, they don't know when you're giving them your soul, and they only want your body on a fucking platter. Maybe he doesn't want to know me; maybe he is only here to get a drink with friends. Maybe he's stupid.

I feel my face go red at that. I don't even know him, and I'm showing him all my moves. Maybe he's an idiot. He must be an idiot. I have to get out of here.

I finish the next poem and stop. I'm ashamed of myself, shouldn't be. This is my place, dammit. What right has he to come here and ruin things for me? None, that's what. I step out from behind the microphone. I quit. I'm done. Tired as hell from nothing, because it wasn't supposed to be like this. I'm fucking shaking. Dude, it's just poetry, Jesus. What's he doing to me? I go over to a table. Watch him look at me. He decides something and walks over. Man fucking saunters. Too cocky. Well, maybe not, because he looks a little worried. Maybe this'll be interesting. Maybe.

"May I sit down?" He asks me. I look up at him, trying to figure him out. Nice voice, deep. Nice eyes, deep. I nod yes, and he sits across from me. And his eyes flicker, like he's scared of something. Not of me. He isn't afraid of me. He's just nervous because he thinks I'll use big words on him. Well, snerk.

He opens his mouth to speak, and his face freezes in time. If I had words to describe it, I would say he makes the world want to rest. He makes time want to still. I jerk back. No fucking way, he doesn't deserve those words. But maybe he does.

His face is lighting up, like he knows something the rest of the world doesn't. Like he's the only one in the world who knows what it means to be happy. Something inside me cracks. What the hell . . . ! What is this? This isn't supposed to happen. You don't fucking fall in love at open-mike readings! What is wrong with you? He didn't even say anything, and you're making google-eyes at him as if he was Shakespeare or something. Too many drinks in one night, that's what it is. Except I haven't had a drink yet.

He read my mind. "Er, may I buy you a drink?" Honey, you can buy me a thousand . . . I wait, until I can see his eyes, until he meets mine. I put a sneer in my voice. "You're gonna have to make better conversation first," I say, "I've had a long day, and I'm tired. Wake me up." He smiles. He smiles! Okay, I take it back, you don't need to say anything.

He does anyway. He starts talking to me, he tells me about himself, about myself, about everything. He doesn't know what he's talking about, but he is talking. His voice fills up my world, until I'm eating it, breathing it. He is using words, the words I love so much. He is made of words, he is loving them and feeding them to me, and I'm wondering if this is just some kind of crazy dream, but I sure as hell hope not. I could get used to this.

He puts his hand out to touch my face, and I'm on fire. Call the fucking fire department, I think I'm burning up. I'm dying. Fire is in my eyes, in my chest, crawling lower. Stop touching me, I mean it. How damn ironic, right? I just wrote that poem, I didn't mean it. But he doesn't know that, he keeps on touching my face, and he reaches out to hold my hand. After the first shock of heat, I start to enjoy myself.

Wait, he has a mouth, maybe it could do things to me. Is that what a smile is for, is it just an invitation to something better? I hope so. He seems to like me, and I know how I feel about him. This is the first person I've ever met to be both: he is both words and a body, both passion and precision. He's madness. What the fuck is he doing with me?

I ask him, what does he want with me. He considers me, and says "I don't know if I want anything. I saw you, and I fell apart. I'm working on putting myself back together." He waits. Don't wait for me, boy. I'm way ahead of you. "Does that answer your question?" I guess it does.

I consider him. How far into him can I go? How long could this last? I guess I'll have to find out. I look into his eyes, I invite him home. We'll see what happens.