I am still mourning a life we 

plotted in jet exhaust fumes. 

My favorite photo of us is

the Chicago skyline,

a reflection of the photographer,

you looming over my shoulder. 

I took your secrets and made them into

ornamental garb

(emperor’s new note

asking if you can hang yourself

with the window blinds).

Ask me if I forgot. 

Saved notes from your mother,

Bible pages to tear up in the woods,

lay a path back to who I used to be. 

I’ll never be the same 

as when we laughed in the shower,

reveling in how uncinematic our bodies are,

how they felt better than film. 


on drinking. 

what’s the purpose

of dying so slowly? 

sipping life,

a summer cordial,

the bottom of the wine bottle,

all the alcohol references for the end

when you realize you can’t drink. 

get drunk in your sleep. 

it’s all like sleeping anyway:

where did that money go?

what did I forget to say?

who put these tears on my pillow?

wear my rock bottoms like blood diamonds,

geodes to prop up the library 

you say is all lies. 

all your books are blank. 

get busy dying, just don’t drive after a stiff one. 

measure your time in how bearable your worst moments are to those you love, not one or two fingers. 

started sleeping with the courage to change the things I am,

hoping to get a little wiser instead of drunk. 

still can’t stand straight. 

gotta stand up for something, 

gotta be something to somebody,

maybe I’m somebody too.