You stay
a stray, angel-whisper
in all my blackened
afternoons. I know
where your dead
laughter hides. I
know we love suicide
more than ourselves.
But we can still do
something for each
other, can’t we? If
I go without telling
you first, I’m
sorry, darling. I wanted
to. There’s a bitterness
to the in-between of my
legs. There’s a name
now for the thing under
our bed.