When will you Believe?
The sun streams into my bedroom. We lay entwined, spent, basking in the aftermath of release. Outside, a bus churns by on 14th Street. The scent of curry
floats up from the Indian restaurant. My stomach growls.
You say: It’s a trust thing.
I say: When will you believe?
You say: What if I never do?
I say: When there’s a will, there’s a way.
You say: I’ve been hurt before.
I say: Who the hell hasn’t been?
You say: I don’t know if I can do this.
I say: But you are, you already are.
You say: I have my own life to consider.
I say: Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me.