He says, flicking his beer can
into a pile of flaming toxins
we broke down to its barest parts
his swagger a product of things uneven
my best friend broken down
to a white T-shirt
and skin-level armor of esoteric references
None of the people I love were supposed to make it to thirty.
I should have outlived you.
I should have been a guest list of dead rock stars and jazz singers
buried in a faraway stare.
The topography of your body was written by pre-emptive strikers
smoking cigarettes far too casually.
The night you went off your medication was the night I wrote you a love poem.
I will never read it to you
even should you stagger to my side of that future again
with your sleeves cut off at the wrists
your dialect on special
your 28th birthday littered with needles.
If I wanted to die that badly,
I’d just do it
instead of waiting for a God I don’t believe in
to intervene on my behalf.