The Moths

I say that you look better 
than yesterday, and you shrug,
say that you have been wearing 
the same make up for years,
although expired long ago
on the very date we met for 
the first time. You didn’t even 
wash it for an entire day, wore
me as an layer on top of your 
matte finish. We recall that hotel
as six grey slabs of cheers.
You worried, because you 
had watched some thriller, 
what would happen and how you 
would explain your presence 
if I die at the summit of joy. If I 
died from the first light 
of the morning next hitting me 
from the one side built to let it in
what would you have done? 
I compliment your lips’ bloody shine.
You say, you like my moth eaten eyes.

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