There is a fist-sized emblem in the wall
masked by a postcard of eagles in flight.
Cracks and splatters on once-white doors.
A broken window slices morning light
washing over bloodstains on the coverlet,
where we slept raged tumbled and swore.
The apartment won't even sound the same
once we've gone: the neighbors will enjoy
dull, placid dawns.
But what of it? Sketching blueprints to house
my loneliness, I resisted; yet what we've left
behind isn't a mess, but hallmarks of love:
luminous, torrential as our restored lives.