Shakespeare

He was ready with a kiss. Surgical as it was. We had rented a slum in happiness. We had chosen the fire escape. With little incident.

Haven't I catalogued that dream? Woken up from it so many times. With fingers still in place. The woof of the floor as it barks out our pace. In a stark rendition of where we've walked.

In cold outlines that pull the labels from these crayons. The nameless colors of the intimate. If we can be so generous as to call it that. Close enough. To know how far.

Turned against myself. By your game of Othello. Convinced that I had done something wrong.