Maybe you only love me when you’re drunk,
pressed between friends and strangers
at a bar in New York City.
Maybe you only love me
when vulnerability can be blamed on excess.
on the over-the-top, on the chandelier made of pearl
Maybe you only love me in the inebriated abstract,
or the concrete physical— but I cannot wait on maybes
of hope I create in myself, in the line of your smile.
But maybe this is how I love you
in between the spaces of written letters
in the millions of sounds between your heartbeat and mine
in the darkness and in my still too empty bed