To breathe at all is bliss;
the treachery of love is made tangible by the bold infractions of our wild-winded hearts.
I think all they ever wanted from us
was “perhaps,”
Yet here we are,
Churning up the melting pot dregs when we kick up our feet
and pressing them curiously to our lips,
Making love in libraries and music in our minds,
Indulging in sticky-fingered truth,
Raging with open palms against the bitterness we inherit,
“Asking for it,”
Love us
Love us
Love us.
Goodnight, Irene 