I am still a little mad at you as
i lift your head and kiss your lips
and they taste of blood and the
glass is broken over the floor and
shines from some light but it’s
dark in here and classical guitars
are coming through the window are
echoing their passion from years
ago but it feels like here those
notes and all this glass and all
the soft parts of us that need to
be gathered up and might as well be
collected in the stanzas of some
tragically romantic song because at
least that wouldn’t make us seem so
small left here in our mess smeared
with each other unable to clean it up.
