the city has my marks-like stains ;they wont go permanentlybut they fade with time.on some dayswhen the weather is softerthe stains remind me of placesi have beenorplaces that marked presence:here is a corner in a bookstorewhere I sat next to youand read eliot’s wasteland”and drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”i readyou listenedtime stood still.the ashtray has the last cigarettewe smokedits turned purple like my palori want an eraseri want to go to all the placeswe wentand erase every stainthat bears our is not a wordit’s not an emotive quantificationfor how oftenhow longyou and I were etched into skin:tattoos of faith.we promised eternity.the lies I have told myselflie on the left hand corner of this roomhuddled togetherbrushed under the afghan carpet .its not visible to anyone.secrets are so hard to keep-that’s what carpets are for.breathing is an arti mastered itthen i stopped breathingi live in gaspingand some other rapturesnow.pristine existence -i hold my head on the neckwith straight shouldersan upright backi’m crumbling within;someone asks:how are you?i hear myselfscreamingi’m dying without lovei need to be heldand kissedi want to see myself dissolvein what was my rightlove is not about affordability quasicinisit’s about burning yourselffor a woman you cant breathe without.I am well, thank you.I answer.