I touch a penciled receipt beside you. I finally understand identity through love.

I see you inside the bookstore before demolition before I prepare my face.

I notice cedar dust on my coat clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a penciled receipt before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need to recognize myself beside us.

I stay as the crew uncovers our old note inside the wall.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the locked reading room instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of identity through love.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a penciled receipt beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the locked reading room with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the bookstore before demolition, but I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.