That we threw our rings in the Hudson River a moment ago.
To celebrate, let’s drink alcohol that is the color of indoor pools.
Tell me your last words. I will share the ways I have pierced myself.
Let’s touch each other in a corner booth. Smash our bottles in the back alley.
Enter a street where the people are fleas and the city is a wounded deer.
It could have been our two-year anniversary, but I have been dead for years.
We could start here, on a building that looks like a glass hive, and leap.
No? Okay, let’s eat disappointing sushi on the hotel floor and keep talking.
You want to live in a shade of purple that rolls along like a story without a plot.
I want to live in a house made entirely of citrus, but San Francisco will do.
Do I seem careless and radiant to you? I am trying to be a plot device.
You tell me to stop kissing you like we’re married and I have just learned
that you are dying. But darling, we are dying. So I must tell you
that I have lied— I do believe in that which endures. I (almost) do.