our kind of hope, pt. I

There is so much pain, and so much beauty.

And the half of my day that is not loving you, is cut up shards of you.

And I am afraid of losing, and so afraid of keeping.

And I am not poster art. I am not well rehearsed. I am yellowed, all hungry barbs. I am the words without the story, or every line eaten, shat, and guts, and glue.

And I don't hate him/her/them/you for every gold star you collect. I want you to be happy, or else I am seeing you, and:

1. the one day lived was in an airplane, and maybe the earth has bruises for him.

2. her body forgets her.

3. he will always be broken in the mirror of us.

4. she has an old dog, in her eyes, in happiness.

5. she is crying, and no one saved her, and I couldn't save her.

You have to be happy, because you hurt me when you don't know hope.

(my guts swell with soapy memories. i taste the moon come crashing, burn my lips on this car heater.)