The End Result of Love
01.01.07

Navigating Philadelphia’s kidneys
disguised as a girl with nothing to do,
north was discovered to be a window
crystallizing bubbles in the amber
and my bug’s eye echo
rounded in each one, as if
the air was trapped and calculated--
every two inches a ‘pop’
and a perfect swell would bloom.

Fog is dangerous in the city--
it blurs ceilings, cloaks the sun,
but I snap-flash-shuttered anyway,
fossilized the lens’ reflection
and pause-snap-flash-shuttered
one for you, as well.

Developed, they were slouching
in my bag the afternoon you finally noticed
my awkward heart and left me
with two of the almost same.