Moved Sheets

Love is not:

Shredding vocal cords

To make a half-baked

Argument you concocted

From shifty assumptions.

Or wilted roses that

Smell like your mother’s

Credit card and the back seat

Of your rusted Mercedes.

I remember the sound of your knees;

Thudding against the ground in front of me.

Tigris and Euphrates running on a face

That reminds me of Judas.

Love is:

What I’ve had since
I left your sorry ass

Kneeling stupidly

In a busy street.

It’s eyes open

Sheets moved,

And the smell

Of coffee brewing.

Walk outside, it’s cold

A hand slides

Into mine.

I shine.

Love is happiness and you noticing when

I get a new haircut because you said I was

Looking a bit scruffy.