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. 

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