And on the nights where tender velvet curtains
brush your bare and peach-fuzzed body,
where you are fully exposed and yet confined by his emotional boundaries,
you cry as he punctures you and you feel more naked and corsetted.
You do not understand the paradox of being less free and less bare
when entirely naked and subjected.
You do not understand the way he looks at you when you confess
that your naked love is seeping out of your pores
and that your tears are just half of the entire story.
You do not understand when he says he loves you and always will
but makes that love up with another girl –
a girl, who under velvet curtains and rosy cheeks
looks twice as lovely as your wildest dreams.
You understand how he loves her in the way you don’t understand how he doesn’t love you.
His name whispers off of your chapped lips
and you realize this desert will never get rain.
The cracking discomfort of your affection will never be sustained
by the wet, erotic love of his perfection,
this girl, whom you are falling in love with, too –
how could you not?
This girl is the depiction of utopia
in a bed that you and he made a dystopia.
And whose fault is it really?
Thin white sheets only gently grazing over muscles and uncertainty,
where your hopes and fascinations come crashing down
the moment the atom bomb was set aflame
and the whole world shattered because modernism is not for the romantic.
The whistling is piercing through your ears
and you can’t hear him as he shouts at you for being you,
for being only half of the perfection of that girl.
And then everything is silent.
The sun kisses the horizon, but his lips are chapped and bruised and bloody.
Your eyes creak open for the first time in 2 centuries.
You cannot hear his faint breath under the thin white sheets and velvet curtains.
You cannot see the blinking phone that bids to him a sonnet of sex and revival from that girl.
The white light of dawn is blinding you, and you are so close to freedom.
You feel the weight of velvet lift off your shoulders,
and you wonder how Christ felt when exalting to heaven.
A tear sheds, and you wonder if he hears you now.
You scream inside, your frigid bones trembling under exasperated love
and the shock waves of atom bombs.
The dust settles into your pores, muddying with your sweat.
The desert is quaking.
You are waking with the sun.
Good morning, America.