We argued heavy—hours slipped away, the cracks of morning came and the drunks from across the street heard us yelling and we competed with each other. I was a broken record and nothing could stop it, especially you. I chimed away your ear and you twisted nothing, you surprised me. Truth surprises me because it is such a rare commodity—it isn’t real because none of this is, we are all just arguing and loving unsure as to why and why not. What better way to pass the time? Loving isn’t like drinking or fucking, loving is a virus—invisible, but I heard it in your voice that night, I heard it in the silence between. I felt it in my anger and because I am an actress I fooled you into thinking otherwise. There are only whispers when love isn’t. Screams happen too, so I’m a liar. I still have dialects of the pain playing on my irises as I fade. The cruelty of a mirage, thirsty for sleep. Will I ever dream or will I hunger for nothing but this litany? We all have a story about why our legs spread and why we cry with our thumbs in our mouths. The key is to dream together and paint our faces with whatever destinations we can afford. Silence is the way, but the only way to know is to scream.