This moment is a forgery. It is a dancer with wooden legs, mocking the graceful breeze she once moved through. Our words drip slow and deliberate like honey in our limp-wristed gestures of love, and our formed understanding of god and war. You besmirch the monogram on your thrift store sweater, yellowed with cigarette smoke and callused secrets of your past. With my arm around you I smile, and flippantly mourn my glories, their unfortunate ends, and the blue sky circumstances that found me here beside you, while we ignore the smog under our eyes. And I touch your hair, my hand tangled in a thorn-bush, and you laugh and touch my leg, your hand grated on sand paper, our eyes watered with happiness, so in love squeezing water from dead trees fallen.
%d bloggers like this: