there is a lie i tell to myself:
permeating every second,
hours at a time on
random days like
the mirror coated in steam
in a room with the lights
that only turn on
in the chaotic slipstream
of knowing it wasn’t a story
in the backseat of
a cab in a city that
is as far away from you
as you are from me.
there is a truth i keep to myself:
infecting every story,
syllables at a time on
the sloped breath
next to a word i want to say
like a song you want to hear
on the other side of
what you can promise
and even these words
are victims of
hiding a secret that isn’t
just obvious but is
nowhere near what
could sleep.
there is a lie i keep to myself:
one of swearing off romanticism,
since boys like me shouldn’t
get lost in the bubbling
wellspring of wondering what
language we don’t know how
to speak in that far away port
where the rain envelopes us
in its warm laughter as it
cracks the cobblestones in an
alley next to the shop where
we go by those names we
found for ourselves after
sailing through the storm
of presence and lightning.