We all live like vampires and killers. I'm scared for myself sometimes, i'm scared for my lungs and my stomach and kidneys, i'm scared for all the fragile parts of my anatomy. One day, I'll just crumple, like a cheap car crushed between two semi trucks. I've spent more than a few nights in holding cells around the city, and i've seen so many burnt-out people, it just makes me afraid. Maybe all this passion i have, all this intensity, is just going to keep growing and filling me with purpose that i can't fulfill. I don't know. Sometimes i think i worry so much partly because Cope reinforces it. I remember this one conversation we had a few months ago, while we were painting a box car at Bay Ridge. It was a cold night, and the air was still and clean, which was unusual. He had his radio on, and the Cure was playing. For a while, a long time actually, the only noise was the distant traffic rumble, the quiet music, and the sound of the spray cans. But then Cope started getting fidgety, and I could tell he wanted to speak.
"Cope." My voice sounded thin. "If you're going to say something, say it. You look like you're about to start shitting bricks" He finished the corner he was working on, and then walked over to me.
"Tweak, I'm worried about you." The words all ran together, and I had to stifle a giggle. Cope, my ghetto, hardass, unafraid Cope, was nervous around me. I put my hand on his shoulder.
"What do you see that you have to be worried about?" He cleared his throat a few times and said
"Everything. You never sleep. You hardly eat. You're always kicking around in alleys at 3 AM. You're going to die or get killed one of these days." He looked at me, and his eyes were full of some unreadable emotion.
"Cope, listen to me. I don't sleep because that's just how i am. I don't eat because, hello, I live under a bridge. I don't have mommy to run home to when I run out of money." He winced. Something in me wanted to stop and comfort him, but I was all worked up now, and i had to finish. "I feel like I'm fading, true, but I'm not sorry. The scene is almost dead, and we both know it. So what if i die with it? This is the only life i have. And, sir, just to let you know, most of the time when i'm kicking around in alleys at ungodly hours, i'm looking for you."
He stared at me for a second, and then kissed me. Crossed the unspoken boundary that we'd created. I pushed him away from me, grabbed my backpack, and ran. Tears ran down my cheeks the whole way back to my bridge. I collapsed on to the pile of soft things that served as a bed, and cried myself to sleep. When i woke up, Cope was sitting on the cold ground near me, and peering intently at my face. That was the moment i fell in love with him.
* * * * * *
Now, the weather is changing. The sun comes up earlier, sets later, and I don't have to wear my jacket every day. Random groups of kids have started roaming the streets again, listening to the Sugarhill Gang and those generic, synth-heavy crap bands on their radios. I started a tribute piece for Cope, and I knew when i went to spend my last 8 dollars on the paint that it was going to be my last. His funeral was last week, and even though i tried to sneak in and hide in the back, his mother caught me. She told me that i could stay with them when i was ready to get my life together. So after I bleed the last of my passion out onto this wall, that's where i'm going. It's going to be akward, no doubt. Living with a bunch of yuppies in a happy little suburb isn't what i'd call natural for me. But, i'm going to do it anyway. It's the last link i have to Cope. His real name is Shawn, but I never called him that. My real name is Amanda. I don't know if he ever even knew that. I don't think he'd care. He loved me for what I am. A skinny, grubby street kid, who always smelled like spray paint and dirty clothes. We made fun of the punks and the Aerosmith fans together. He'd be happy that I'm going to live with his parents, happy that I don't have to look for him at 3 AM anymore.

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