i mistook the happiness you brought me
for the kind that could be obtained
from a sunny morning,
a strong espresso,
the smell of freshly baked bread.
i was happy a lot.
i was scared a lot.
you would call it collateral damage:
the scars and stained teeth,
the unpaid bills and unanswered calls,
the empty bottles on the window sill.
i would call it art:
evidence of a life well-lived.
the thing about me is my heart is made of diamond.
the thing about me is that when you touch me,
you’re touching an idea of me.
the thing about me is i’m only here for the story.
that flutter of your eyelids—i’m writing it.
that curve of your spine, that old way you laugh.
otherwise you know i’d do better.