Regardless of whether or not I believe in them, they lay before me,
undeniable. Facts, objects, the relics of an evening dripping with
beginnings.
This apartment tells a story, unmade bed meets empty wine bottle, and there
on the floor amidst the scatterings of broken glass–two roses
without their petals.
Mixed within the curls of hair on your chest is the smell of smoke
and sweat and cologne that is your body’s aura. It lingers
in my mouth.
I am now aware of elements of myself. We left behind the performance
and entered real life. You remained here next to me, as hopefully
you shall.
Me and Mr. Jones 