I am not broken, I’m bent like a street sign surviving a crash; I am the telephone wire, more grounded after each storm. There will always be those excuses for discord, whether it is the moon or your father’s hands. I will be the bookmark in a time you learned to invest outside of elevator rides to hell. When you wake up at night they are my eyes in the darkest corners still watching from every synapses in your own mind (you asked me to be here, so I will reside). You will always be the tremors under my left eyelid when someone asks me about love, about the hurt, about those moments out of breath with lips against lips against lips. (What I am trying to say is, I would always choose you, respect you, love you with a wholeness like only a first and true [knowing you could never do the same].)


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