Will it be Instagrammed, 50 likes

buttons pressed to show approval

instapopularity, we can accept ourselves now

filtering out sincerity in acid blue

Will it be framed on the wall

because something had to fill the space

between the window and the door

Will it hang on a crumbling stripe of tape

curving at the corners, yellowed edges

a memento you keep just to remind you

of number eight

so as you stumble in the room

the fingers of one hand brush it off

as they grope for the light switch

while the other hand

gropes the lower back of number nine

Will it be torn in half by anguish and regret

burned by unforgiving silences

and a lighter that once set candles aflame

Will it be on our faces

fifty years from now

the only creases are our imprint smiles

the only real tokens of a lived-in love.