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...