Nobody will remember this. Nobody will witness the redness of your mouth, or how it’s both tender and cruel.
Even as the gold starts pricking the sky, I’m forgetting. Even as you settle into that rhythm, that old back and forth, as the tree above us rocks and the fruit hangs and the legs split, mouths cleave, eyes close, the hearts beat out into the day the same old song, the same old song.
And afterwards everything is spilled, and we’re too old to play, and we’re losing everything in spite of ourselves but oh, god, was it worth it.