The Stranger

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The Stranger
His hands tremble,
the palms are slick with sweat.
His hair is greasy,
coated with melted gel.
He stinks of ashes
and of hours old stale beer.
He shifts his weight
from left to right to left.
Brown eyes rolling,
cloudy and glossed over.
Cracked lips quiver,
craving one more quick sip.
His skin so pale,
even fresh snow blushes.
He wants me now.
I don’t want him, but I’ll
go home with him.
In the morning I’ll leave.
He’ll forget me,
wondering who I was.
I’ll remember
but I won’t care at all.
I’ll just wonder
who it is I’ve become.
Who am I now?