Clean your wounds with callused hands,
Dirtied fingertips, chipped nails.
Infect them with the best intentions.
I don’t know the slightest of you
But let me help you.

In you, out of you, with you, as you.
A failure to distinguish two halves,
But the splintered fragments are so obvious.
I cracked you, but you didn’t me.
I took a chisel to myself and peeled away the plaster.

Piece me back together,
Gloved palms and a sterile fragrance.
Hold me in the back of a streetcar,
Surrounded by the unromantic stale leather
And tell me we’re leaving.

Going, going, going:
Nowhere, everywhere, to your house, to mine.
Scale the cliffs of our relationship
And look at the view.
Pray it’s an eternal summer.

And it’s you who’s the idealist.
You paint a scene of blues and reds,
Starks contrasts, you paint white on white.
Bleach out the imperfections, give me
Pastel shades of muted glory.

Take me on a trip.
Fluxing into your mind and back out through your eyes.
Tether me to you hope because
I don’t have


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