Gearing up for holidays.

My shadow looms beside him every time we pass a streetlight

It is not the habit that makes it attractive
but losing himself on the street he is aiming for.
It is not the whisky, wrapped up

in a plastic bag from Morrisons, but the way
black silk clings to his shoulders and hides his ears,
even as his head tilts back to nearly catch me

staring. It is not the perfume, necessarily, that smells
so good, but the opportunity to ask; which I turn down
thinking better of it. It is not the accent he has

but the use of it directed past me
to some other strangers on the street.