[Corneac]

We wrote our love
on the bathroom wall,
in magic markers,
graffiti they called it,
art – to others,
-to us, it was a preservation,
a documentation of what was,

to some, love hearts scrawled
on a bathroom wall,
with snatches of poetry,
that lingers still, perhaps

and called –

“call this number, for a fuck”
no, chunky black letters
and indecipherable messages
of teen angst and such,
like cuts that bleed
and scab and heal,
childhood– to youth – to age
a wound that opens,
pustules,
on carefree summer days,
that scab over – picked,
reset,
re-picked,
that fades, eventually,
a scar – still there,
barely,
and yet, still scrawled
on the bathroom wall