and drank vodka out of bowls like cereal milk.
Sure, everything was already fucked up,
but we didn’t know it yet.
It was as it had always been.
We were thin, but not sick with it,
and we were drunk, but not numb with it,
and the pills came later,
once we picked up our parents’ habits
like leftovers in the fridge,
right where they’d left them.
We were spoiled rancid and mean with attention from faceless boys,
their printless fingers leaving marks that expanded,
magnified under the water steaming with chlorine.
Lying on your trampoline with a choir of cicadas sawing the blues into summer,
the dark turned indigo by moon- life was like this: gorgeous and almost over.
Life unrelenting, the geese migrating through our heartbreak,
concealer ruining the bright white of a shirt, the thin blister of a sunburn well earned.
Even the memory of it now is an orchestral hum, filling me belly-up.
I wrote a poem about you in a field of red flowers,
particular about your coffee,
and I still mean it,
and in my dreams you’re always the one with the courage
to pull the trigger when the monster finally
breaks down the door.