Sick. Sad. Love. Affair.

andy-warhol-love-affair

Loves notes mottled with line breaks-
Structured as such to indicate
When a trembling lip
Becomes a healthy chore.

I could stutter a thousand pages of do-nothings
And forget the consequences the Haves wrought.

Listen,
“Perhaps we confuse commitment for seclusion?”

Or recognize smiles as fragmented moonlight
Blessed
By the stigma of overcast. It’s never as reassuring
As we make it seem-

Maybe tonight when traffic settles
And we’re ensconced in blankets and silence

We can blame the distance
Ignoring our addiction to failure.

I’ll style my grin that way
And we can relay
Compliments
As if the do-nothings were wrong.

“No.”
No matter.

I’ll find our pulse beneath the light switch
And sleep as if the darkness is ours.

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