I like to remember things that never happened,
like bloodwine sunsets over Brooklyn
and our bodies in bare-footed
recline.
Hands clasped under blankets in innocent and ignorant
youth defiant,
a love story written in the most simple
and unassuming prose.
Something virgin in a harlot world
while around us the garbage and glamour
likewise dually
burn.

There was a time I craved an empire,
now I'd settle for a patch of land
a bit of honesty
and hours of
genuine discourse and
knowing
silences.