Listen.
There was love in this house, and I have photographic evidence to prove it.
There are pictures of us kissing,
sometimes my face is screwed up
sometimes you are pretending I am someone else
or I am pretending you are not you
And sometimes we are satisfied:
emotion breaks in the slant of my eyelash
and the placement of your hands on my clavicle
We lean in.
The lipstick already smudging on the corner of your mouth
the future ashes of our burning bridges smeared glitter under my whiskey eyes
caked to the waterline
We love harder.
I have the evidence in the flash on a bar window in Brooklyn.
We love
harder.
