Mile Markers

Our eyes were calibrated to lust
over the image of lovers
we conjured each other to be,
and once were.
We occasionally desired to brush
the vintage off our rituals,
our facade,
but the vinyl of our lives
became too classic to pawn.
So instead, we sold our emotions
to vacant dreams
and talk too cheap to afford them.

You, the charcoal haired
punctuated smile,
psychology major;
I, your future nurse
married to unfinished puzzles
hidden under mattresses;
still finds something attractive
between the beats
of arryhtmic hearts
to compose tragedies to.

Our hands were hobos,
every embrace: a mile marker,
every caress: an attempt
to make amends,
only to find ourselves lost
in the maze of each other’s fingerprints,
tracking our way back
from its cul de sacs,
wanting our arms to form
halos around us
to hallow the moment,
but there’s nothing sacred
about pity.

You searched for ink,
took my arm,
rolled up my sleeve and wrote:
“It’s better this way,
but I
still love you…”

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