Is it the end of love, when a look is a chain of events stopping at two? When the outline of your face scurries away under the stove. When your name is just a word tasting like bread. Is it the end of us, when a kiss is a grocery list? And how it was, your day again. Good morning. Good night. Is it a home, if the kitchen is clean? Because here I am using my elbow grease, rising in celsius, making us whole. Is that my favorite? It's not the end until we say so.

Curtains drop, trap door opens— dive into the disco inferno. Sweat it out in the obliteration machine. Everyone’s gone, plates in the sink. What did you do wrong, baby? Well, I caught a whisper of course, an illegible exchange. The reviews are in. They're calling it hideous, debased, vaporous and dead: a smug invention of self-absorption. Basically. On their way home, everyone is talking, ears still buzzing with rejection and distaste. Fuck this and fuck that, and most of

I love you so much I don't want to lose you but I feel like I'm going to. I open my camera roll and just by seeing your smile I'm in tears. Writing this feels weird, like I'm trying to squeeze something out of my misery. More misery. All I want is to see your face walk through the door, and have it all be okay for a moment. If anything, I hate myself. For missing the right words, the right gestures. For not knowing how to touch you. For not loving you in a way proportional