Lipstick marks on cocktail napkins in dingy pubs,
I think about clawing my name or some
on the toilet doors,
but I’m not committing to bricks and wood.
Hearts grow old like cities;
some roads are so worn
it’s hard not to retrace the steps
of old lovers,
without even knowing it. Layers,
and layers of graffiti.
Of lipstick applications on
I try to be beautiful here, it’s
all I’m good for,
it’s all the city eats.
But you. Gods,
you know the back alleyways
of this heart like a cat. I feel you rubbing up against
the screwed up rain gutters.
You lean up against the wall of all the empty buildings
I’ve not had the
to tear down.
The permanence of claw marks on old doorways here
leaves something to be desired.
This city up the stakes of living without us noticing,
the journey from mine
eats more each time.
But for now
I’m putting on more lipstick
waiting for you,
we’ll walk familiar streets, ignoring
the history of this place.