​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)​.​