We stack our excuses like dirty dishes,

Ceramic clangs of “maybe” and “who knows?”

Scatter hints like books and coats on the floor:

Woolen black fabric rolling in dog hair.

Our carpet stained from late night ice cream:

Chocolate syrup running down our spoons.

Black ink words that we read to each other:

They replace the truths clogged in our throats.

And yet I know that I still love you,

As we sit silently facing each other.

You lick off your freckle of whipped cream

And I press a kiss to your snow cold mouth.

When I leave I close the door gently behind,

Letting you dream our Windex future.

by Eliza Vasconcellos