To love quietly

Is to be a photograph

We are only allowed

The empty glasses, the cat,

The photobooks by your bed, the hardwood floor,

The car, the breeze, God

Is our witness

And maybe he hates us

For cheating

But he gives us love

Like a sycophant who is fat

And drunk, a voyeuristic

Pimp

Who has the nerve to make us love

And watch alone, press the juice

Out of there and fill himself

And empty himself here

Like bad news with your coffee

And bad coffee with the news

And the paper folds back

And there’s more to it than love

But I refuse it

When I pick up the ice cream

It falls off the cone

And I take it to be mine

Put it back

It is mine and I will have it or I will die

To love is to live

And as long as I live

The cat, the empty glasses, the hardwood floor,

The photobooks by your bed, God, the breeze,

The car will be mine

Be it love or a sick pimp

The apple or the teeth, I will

Take it

In silence

Despite everything else

If I die on the wrong hill

I will have climbed