Love, darling. The world is at a loss
the nice things are rusty, cruelty
becomes a norm. The tip of her tongue
is as sharp as a dagger; her fingers, a nib
spilling pitch-black holes into the canvass
where no word was written,
only mess
only missing things
in the blank white space. So, love, darling
even monsters are honest beneath
their scaly skin. Don’t spit fire. Roll
their names at the back of your teeth. Remember,
things fall apart, but love is a glue
inside large glass bottles that beat
between our lungs. Every throb,
a cadence, singing about wounds in scarlet
and mornings anew, for love covers
a multitude of sins
and it will cover you.