My ears listen to you lovingly
until the very end of love.
At the finish my hatreds harken,
my mind figures it's a weapon
made of paper and tattoo ink.
I'd journey to East Asia and do us
love-making in origami.
Listen to the paper fold finely.
Imagine my ears there,
where the only thing that's heard
is me disassembling, each time,
every time, at the end of tenderness.
Where hate is nostalgic
finalization of affection.