A Face, A Dark Room

Loneliness: a face through a window,

Inside, somewhere.

Happiness: he tells me to smile, Says

That sad eyes are prettier when drunk.

Make love in a dark room and forget that you

Cannot breathe


This room is blue—

No, red—

No, fever.

Why don’t you have another drink?

Why don’t you laugh loudly?

He didn’t want to hear it.

A fever by any other name

Would not know fever.

Would not know self.

Would instead be:



“a dirt-stained window”

I see glass.

I count my ribs when mirrors appear before me.

Always bodies of distance.

Always—adoration has been here,

Somewhere, before.

I just cannot recall right now.

Right this second,

Things like

Heartbreak, wine breath,

Are not words—

Instead consequences.

Were the right questions curved

Into statements?

Were they forged as mistakes,

Or misunderstandings?

I think I heard once that

Love is a home built in the shape

Of a question mark.

Are you listening.

I recant only the empty kind of dark.

You can take my words back.

I now understand

Love: a face behind a window.

Heartbreak: inside,

Somewhere you are not.

The End

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