The first time love rolls off the lips
it feels like a word read, but never spoken,
and the most unimaginable response slips:
“No, you don’t.”
Maybe they’re right- love and lust are weeds
That grow in equal soil, and have similar thorns-
but very different needs.
The night reminds you of them, or,
they remind you of a deep night,
dangerous and lonely and full
of delight, and stars to discover.
The fragments of you canot be buried anymore,
every piece of you will sprout and bloom,
growing up toward the sun,
images and text, photographs of smiling
couples, of halves sewn
into a whole, and in those moments
it is easy, so easy, to wish
you’d forget.
