I hadn’t thought of it in years, it’s been years
since I’ve seen it.
I’d been first to see it, no,
second, after he who wrote it.
I am not using his name today,
he who erased himself
with such punctuation of blood.
Jenny just called me a glittery little minx.
See that John, you are nothing but corpse,
others leave me notes through the ether.
The letters just ride through air,
and all those nights I was waiting for some sign
that your atoms had regrouped elsewhere,
like vapor returning to water on my bare palm.
When you touched my hand it felt like a promise.
I think you left your loneliness writhing in my body.