This is Romance

This is romance: the kitchen floor.
The running mascara on fat lips.
I scare myself in the wet, pooled tiles.
This is a reflection: of love.
Tears streak down, cutting the dry skin.
Yes, I was dry a second ago.
I was dry and cracking,
I pulled myself together by
crying. This is reality: the
night. Being wasted, holding
your breath, so as you don't
accidentally scream. Love.
It's a fickle thing. Run your chipped nails
across your scalp. Wasted
like everything else.
This is romance: one of those nights.
Street light: holy sight.
If the body does really die
one night, and rebirths the next,
the fallen angels save me...