MARC CORRALES

Before long, there’s an enquiry

about where we would go from there.

The arguing, scorching, fiery,

not even our bed could make it wear.

I tried taking a cold shower.

I tried to tell myself to stay

cool. Only then, I have ire

from when you let our flowers fray.

One holiday, when the ground’s hard,

the air conditioner is on,

but the heat is there, like a card

played against a dealer in con.

Sometimes, I would look at the soil

to justify how we can stick

together, the bloody rose foils

with its thorns in the deepest thick.

I want to find answers. Something

that shows manifest destiny.

An oath to do until death’s hinge.

One excuse that’s worth my belief.

Once upon a time, when we first

met under some springtime’s old sun,

we were young, wanting magic for thirst

so, we went out, blinded by fun.

Now, the whole affair is past

as I sign the papers that annuls 

this ring of ours. It doesn’t last.

But I want to say this. I love you.