Broken-hearted like bar crawls, scrawled on paperworks because paper works, like I’m a cedar box pushed down the lakeshore, a memory folded up in the envelope of my sister’s screams. I used to i.d. your blood as if it were elixir, bagged up by fingertips, all powdered sterile. In those worst moments I loved you most. I amount to nothing in your eyes, without you, but this is still more than the sum of parts. The devils’ arts are played off when you drag suitcases to the water, wash me clean like I was bloodless, wash me fresh like I never met your hands. If we amassed the sum of those intangible one-acts we would see mankind’s wars played out like sonnets I wrote between your shoulder blades as you shook, leaves leaving trees, you’s leaving me’s, sun leaving God, and gutters on the tip of my tongue.