Tear it down; your hands, my hands — there is no difference. The ash slips through our fingers all the same. You say my name and it sounds like destroy. I kiss you like an eight year war, taste the dirt and blood, taste the dead. Love is something sharp to touch and we are bad at being careful. Sometimes the bed looks like a battleground because you break against me like the waves against a rock, like you could wear my bones down to froth. And sometimes you do. And sometimes I let you. So these are our bruises. So these are our badges. We become something new each time — and maybe it looks like it hurts, but we only break because we fill too fast. Your mouth. Your eyes. We only break because our bones can’t brace against the impact of our love. And we burn, and we smolder, and we rise. My hands. My laugh. Let’s do this one more time. Always one more time.