She would always compare love
to a habit,
something one eventually gets
used to. I don’t plan on giving away
pieces of myself for the sake of
feeding my habit,
whatever that may be. But I can also see
how she could be right.

Dripping walls speak out – guarding a
possibility.
They may not be bothered until feeble
smokescreens arrive, unattended.
Skin won’t crawl and lanterns will not quake.
The stickiness of rain settles into all that has been
made at
biweekly intervals. Oh science! dearly fleeing
from my good luck, you left a compensation
for the deadbeat tattered robe. (An applied luxury.)
Backwards lashes of dancers in the sea.
Their grandparents' history to be taken with a grain of salt.
Some spinning in the misty moss growth
ignites the yellow from the evergreen’s pollen
seed.
It stops every other season when we take
and rub it on our clothes.
It’s not that sad, there’s no offense.
It’s something we've gotten used to.