Post Romantic

I liked us best dishonest,
sleep-deprived, when our
words slurred enough to
make sense. I’m afraid
we’re merely ephemeral,
like the red glow of our cigarettes
across the church lights in the distance,
sending smoke signals to God
as if already we sought
some sort of salvation.

Case in point:
In this world I can
love a stranger for a moment;
every scene romanticized:
make stars out of streetlamps
and fathom constellations
in the whiskey of your eyes;
pretend to like your aftertaste of
ashes, of warm beer and coffee breath;
throw our wounded hearts out at sea,
taste the sea-salt on our tongues
when our lips come together.
(I take it back, I liked us
best as strangers.
It’s easier, falling in love
with ideas.)

But for every lie there is a universe
of truth in the next galaxy,
a million of mes and yous coming together
and falling apart, over and over.
Isn’t it romantic? We are forever
in theory, in the darkness of the nebulae;
we live in supernovas and collapsing stars.
Somewhere in the infinite
we are more than ghosts and lost causes,
more than stumbling souls clinging desperately
to each other, to the surface
of this ever-spinning earth.
Be consoled: written in the stars is a we
who deserve each other.
(but that’s a rather sad story isn’t it?
In this world my stories all end
with someone leaving, and I’ll
be damned if you ruin the plotline.)
Yesterday you gave me a mix tape,
romance like in those old 80’s movies.
But I don’t need your sad songs, my darling.
I’ve got my own,
beating out of my ribcage.


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