I am trying so hard not to say soft things
because I am strong
and distant
and do not have tender feelings.
Because you hurt me and I,
I am far too powerful for that.


But I want your skin against mine.
And while you lied I was
writing bad poetry and
even your cigarette smoke
smells nice to me and
every night I remember you’re
where I’d rather be but
this is not a poem.


And no, it’s not an epiphany,
I’ve known it all along.
But if you ask,

we are still gods.