Chicago can’t handle the way I loved you, so deep and so tender; eyes as clear as boiled water, culmination in effervescence between our sighs. Don’t be callous, boy, for you the world and then some before our recession. I pick peaches in the sun while we rot each other; your skin is so bruised under my lips, less a metaphor and more a statement of how our hurts turned love sour. This is what caring can be sometimes, letting go before you learn to hate, keeping quiet about it being you or me, it was always us. The older I get the harder it is to pretend you’re untrue, but if I did it all again I’d still get too drunk and tell you I love you every night and let you hold my hand in disbelief. We don’t need to talk about this poem in your pocket.


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