some labels become so hard to flout,
laden with half-truths, pregnant
with a certain pleasure that you can’t get
by merely swinging your ass when you walk,
or by dangling the neck of a beer between forefinger
some labels are as true as breath.
i said “i love you” with the dying breath,
the exhale, outgoing departing softening of
muscles and tissue.
some labels are delicate like wet paper
like the sticker softened on a bottle’s dew,
the cool condensing of water on the glass
easing the glue. the troubles pried away
from the smitten boy who tears his
hands from the depths of pants pockets
to reach for the hand of his crush.