When I Think of Love

When I think of Love,

I think of you.

I think of holding fingers under

dirty diner tables.

I think of long conversations that

I almost never regretted

in my groggy mornings.

I think of coffee and weed,

things that convinced us we were alive,

after all.

I think of our first time:

hungry, anxious, and fervent

fingers ripping away capitalism,



until our raw goods are clear of refinement.

I think of our last time:

dim lights and t.v.’s filled with static

left on for our lack of entertainment.

I think of hangovers and angry text messages

that I always regretted in the mornings.

I think of broken fists and bloodied lips,

because sometimes love turns to hate

and people fight for nothing at all.

I think of buying a house and never being satisfied

with anything but marble counters,

wood floors,

oak cabinets.

I think of never being satisfied.
When I think of love,

I think of You,

and I can’t tell you how terrifying that is.


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