which is to say, the art of beauty; 
                                                                        the antithesis of pretend. 

in his world, the boyfriends are just boyfriends, 
               no motive with which to wield word. the martyrs 
ache with disease, the dreams shared in daylight 
               remain gorgeous air and nothing more. 

he likes it, or maybe he lies. for who could enjoy a jail cell
               of syllable? creation so honest it cuts chests? 
we could try to understand; learn the love that dare not 
               speak its name, the sinners with their futures, 
the art for art’s sake. we could spit out sonnets that 
               spill so lovingly across our beds, 
watch hearts split to bleed sweet nectar— 

no, I’m sorry. it could not possibly be that pretty. 
              forgive me for fallacy. forgive me for 
metaphor and all the fancy of greatness, just— 
              if time is only time and bodies cusp mere wind 
and skin, is there really a meaning in touch? 

the story goes like this: 
              in truth i love the search, the strobes, the cheeks 
                             swelling with poem. i love the decay, the still air, 
              the frontstabbing friends, all the prayers and surrenders
that make mouths whole. or maybe i lie. maybe i 
simply love you, reader: 
              the wordplay of us, 
                             our lungfuls of daydreams, 
                                          and all the beauty with which we pretend.
Trini Rogando is a student from Virginia. Her work is published or forthcoming in the Lumiere Review, the Blue Marble Review, Wrongdoing Mag, and elsewhere. She wants to remind everyone to not take life too seriously; no one ever gets out alive.
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