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This is love


I had to stop painting my piano fingers

next day they’d be stained acrylic, ink

with clear nails I sit 

comforted by clickclickclick 

of your keys: I think too loud to type


moonchild— I’m supposed to be:

streaked with lightning, 

sheltered by the bus stop 

stained spring days 

lips wet and a plethora of me too’s


I hate the cold, you say. I, much less. 

but fuzzy with good company

questioning death, candle scents, and what a kiss is

inside me and you

is such a flame, the breeze can’t cut me


I like being on buses with you, 

when you slip into sleep the sky slips by 

the sun reads my scribbled rhymes

  your blond lashes bathed in light

we arrive, only bathed in light


I can’t sleep in a big bed

homesick for a home that is not a place

your voice over static

my mouth bittersweet

I prefer the single bed in your old room


there is a to-be-broken ashtray on our shelf

half a piece for you and me

every time we make eye contact

wait a bit more I say

You will never break it. 


our fairy lights flicker with fatigue

in our third apartment

Next time we should get a house

I don’t believe you until I see your eyes

Maybe get a cat too, Kitten?


you mock me for liking lollipops

but you would buy me a boxful if I ran out.

everythingoes and comes back

I hate our waiting game

I yearn for the taste of the ocean.

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