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.