there is always
that little bit of something
that says
maybe this won’t work
and that little bit of something
that shrugs
and doesn’t care
but not

before we slip into the mire
of disillusioned romance
rose petals and champagne
(make me vomit; i’m not stuck between the pages
of a fairy tale)
and all the things that turned them sour
don’t think i’ve fallen victim
to some kind of sleek infatuation
we’re not stupid
we are logic
this makes sense.

there is perfection in the smallest things
-i won’t tell you what they are
they’re mine to keep
and share in early morning
while the sun is still

in the chaos that creates us
that defines us
won’t destroy us there is
were are fucking
don’t try.

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