It is nearing dinner time. There is a scratch
on my glasses, which makes it hard to see.
You tell me that I am beautiful. You tell me
that the summer will be here soon.
I work harder than I ever have before.
For me, the work feels like
leaving something behind. For you,
it is right. Itās divine. There is an invisible
line we have crossed, and now that weāre here
there is no use pretending anymore.
We might as well enjoy it.
It is March again. The azaleas are in bloom.
We cook rice in summer spices, roast red sausage,
pour glasses of cheap wine. In line, at the grocery store,
shopping from a scribbled half-list
we kissed,
and did not care who watched us.
The rice did not cook correctly.
You chop tomatoes for the salad
and squeeze lime juice on top.
It is hotter in the kitchen. Hotter, still, outside,
where the round bulb lights
show a patio, half-rotted
and leaning towards collapse.
If I am leaning towards madness,
I think I would like you to know. If the timing
was not right, we would feel it.
If the clock on the stove slowed
we will certainly have noticed. Do not be afraid
of the smoke pooling in the rafters
or the steam hissing from a pot of
brewing tea. Ā Do not be afraid of me,
even when instinct tells you otherwise.
Outside, the sky is a starless black.
We eat the rice, the salad, the charred bread,
laughing at the way these things take shape sometimes
even without effort.
Despite my best laid plans, and the loneliness
I had affixed to my breast like an honor,
despite the burnt bread,
the undercooked rice,
the brownies, which we forgot to put in the oven,
the absence of wholesome intention,
despite the mistakes that have anchored me,
you are here now.
Beneath the starless sky, adrift,
tasting cheap wine and southern spices,
you are here.
And I think
despite all of the ways I have gone wrong
the world wants us to live
like this.
stormborns
amandla
2087
vaporwave
prguitarman
