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
(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.
what’s the purpose
of dying so slowly?
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.
put your shoes back on
but we’re not walking, no
just can’t forget how far we’ve come