is there any cure for love?  
I asked a bartender
once in a town
where even the pigeons
looked tired.  
he laughed, poured whiskey,  
and said
“yeah—time, or a bullet.”
but time just teaches you
how to miss her cleaner,  
and bullets are too polite.  
love isn’t a wound,
it’s a habit—  
like lighting a cigarette after ***  
or checking your phone for nothing.  
she’s not coming back.  
but the ache of her
still knows the way back,
still writes poems on your spine
and unbuttons your rest.  
is there any cure for love?  
maybe.  
but no one takes it.  
we like the fever...

war in springtime—  
that’s what loving you felt like.  
flowers blooming from bullet holes,  
soft hands loading sharp goodbyes.  
you kissed like a ceasefire,  
brief, trembling,  
already mourning the next round.  
your laughter came with landmines,  
your silence—  
a ****** in the dark.  
I brought you peace,  
you brought me poetry wrapped in grenades.  
and I took it,  
every line,  
every blast,  
because something about ruin  
wearing a floral dress  
felt like the closest thing  
to truth I'd ever touched.  
you were spring,  
yes—  
but also the smoke  
rising from what it left behind.  
and I still breathed it in.