You cried in my lap, drunk, talk of death on your lips. Dead friends.
You told me you loved me while I served cones of gelato that July.
Cars on fire, the city in ruins, you were arrested in a country foreign.
I walked all night looking for you. Grey sweatshirt. Grey. Chain smoked cigarettes
from the hotel balcony.
My birthday. Laying alone on your back deck, pouring screwdrivers down my throat.
Alone. "In Absentia" playing on a silver nano.
The sun warming my legs. Tears welling in my eyes.
My silver ring, nine months of mesmerizing indents. I kissed it every time it left my finger.
Your new basement suite, first night, no furniture, just a mattress on the cold floor.
I danced in nothing but a fur coat, freedom.
The road. Sleeping in the back of your truck.
Beachfires, hikes, sex, photographs, breakfast diners.
Empathogens buried in your side yard.
Stabbed by a friend.
A Sunday, sitting next to you. No breath in my lungs. Can't breathe.
You threw the ring down a sewer drain.
Vacant road. Bloodshot eyes.
I sat in a patch of sun outside the airport.
Numb the whole way home. Disbelief.
Yet the flowers still bloom.
They die, they bloom, they die, they bloom, they die, they bloom.