whisper that you love me, over spent shots & crushed glass breakable under my boots in a releasing sort of way
(our electricity gives me frizzy hair- makes me feel like tangled braids are really just archetypal love nests)
there's always spilled beer on your holy flannel shirt as you count to thirty in Spanish, eyes crunching with laughter as you stumble over your self-made mockery.
(a field of sunflowers would want a photo with you- to look fondly back on something so light)
we split cigarettes on stoops and helped each other achieve sore guts and creased wrinkles that our grandchildren will trace and feel nostalgic for.
(a past they never knew- you're the only one I ever split something with).