Quite

I could taste metal on your hands when you were trying to find a home in my skin.

“How’s your wife?”

“Still alive,” you said, and to me, it sounded quite like love.

“Did you touch her like this?”

“Stop talking,” you said, and to me, it felt quite like love.

“Would you marry her again?”

“Yes,” you said, and to me, it smelt quite like love.

 

I could smell her flesh on your hands when you were trying to rip my body and soul apart.

“How’s your wife?”

“Empty,” you said, and to me, it looked quite like love.

“Did you kiss her like this?”

“Shut up,” you said, and to me, it hurt quite like love.

“Would you marry her again?”

“Yes,” you said, and to me, it bled quite like love.

 

I could feel blood on your hands when you were trying to kill me.

“How’s your wife?”

“Dead,” you said, and to me, that was quite like love.

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