Nostalgic Hate

Nostalgic Hate

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.