Two linked sugars
make up a disaccharide.
And that’s what we are-
simple, plain table sugar
dully passed back and forth
to sweeten our taste.
Sometimes I'll accidentally
switch the shakers for breakfast,
hand you the salt
just to change up the spice.
And sometimes I regret
the bitter words
you exchange in return
for breaking the boring
status quo.

I put my trust in an already
broken vase and
handed it to you.
I said, "If this cracks
even a little bit,
my trust will ooze out
and the shard that splits
is a piece of my heart
that ran away again."
It's taken me so long
to find that piece
and convince it to
fit back where it was supposed to.
But it always struggle to accept.
This is where I urge you
to not drop me.

It's getting easier to say goodbye to you.
Every time I migrate away from home to find warmth,
leave you behind in the cold,
I am taking back a piece of my soul
that I have left in your icy hands.
You still have the same hold, the same capture,
but I am learning that it's much easier
to keep my heart to myself.

They say that the Arizona trout is found
only in this state,
and I wonder if I had not found you
who else would have taken me in?
The sore problem is maybe
you have discovered me on accident
when there was someone else out there
that needed you instead.
I'm petrified at the thought
that if I swim away,
no one would ever find me again.

One day we were counting
the ghosts of our mistakes
and you randomly brought up,
"Ernest Hemingway saved his manuscripts
by throwing them out the upstairs window
while his studio was burning."

I compared you to Hemingway
that a man can love words
more than an actual person,
more than his own life at stake.

To which I responded,
as I hope it marred your mind,
“I liked the idea of loving you.
I wanted some sort of filler
to compensate for the feelings I got.”

Your fixation was intensely unnerving,
like you were unwrapping every vein that rippled in my body.
I carried on, watching the embers of fault lick you profusely.

“For some reason, I use people until there’s nothing left to use.
Romantically, I used you to cover what I wanted-
Cast you in daydreams where it is like this right now,
in a coffee shop underneath the streetlights.

“It was all the idea of it.
As much as I wanted to make up our relationship,
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to really be with you.
To be close to you, your hand in mine,
to watch your favorite movies under a warm blanket, to jump
in the car with you to chase a sunset.
To have you text me at two in the morning
and tell me I’m beautiful.”

You began to protest,
but I wouldn’t listen.
There is something satisfying
in expressing true happiness
rather than dwelling on it in your mind.
I knew you weren’t giving me that.

“So I don’t think I was ever in love with you.
Just the thought of you.”

Nothing works out in the end.
All of us will be gone.
Our name will not be remembered.

The signs and lights will fade to black.
The Hollywood sign will collapse of old age, like us.
Poppies shrivel up, their red coats falling onto the scorched earth.
Grapes transcend into wrinkly sacs of bitter wine.

The way your hand slipped in mine,
the fingerprints will rub away.
Our heart beats slow,
diminish.
Our laughter evanesce,
wanes
as our voices descend past the Pacific ocean.