Some years have escaped
between the chase.
We can run but we don't have to.
Remember how much violence it took
us to become this gentle,
and how much youth it took
us to become this wise.
There are two hundred thousand words in our language
but a million more to ourselves held behind our
teeth, reeking of profanity
and tobacco. When the smoke loses
its density, we can open our eyes
and we don't have to
be afraid. Our skins reflecting off the sunrise,
tomorrow is on the cusp of a breath.
We can drive to my studio in the city
and make art of ourselves -
my version of me in my leather jacket,
your version of you with your cigarette drags.
Each brushstroke,
a little bit of love and a little bit of intoxication,
we forgive
ourselves for everything
we did not become, and we don't have to pretend
it didn't hurt.
