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.