neck hurts lying supine in living room/ an island dividing young from old/ yet popping xanax (xannies, xans) like mad oedipal adolescence looking for an erasure of memory/ and forgets my age/ 18 years ago remembered me crying babbling/ helplessness/ where’s grandpa?/ and asked about assisted suicide to a doctor who only cared about low-sodium almond milk and hysterectomies/ mrs. marlowe, ask again in oregon/ and she still manages to fall asleep at 10 pm.

The moon could have collapsed from the sky,
Shattered like a vase of cremains
Absorbed by the dense wet Earth,
And we would have waited to regret afterwards.

You killed my youth at your kiss of my lips when
I envisioned planets colliding and
Vibrant supernovas ensuing.
Maybe they’re all the same thing, or

Maybe I just didn’t know you well enough, like
The mineral of your curious teeth nibbling
My untouched neck.

Every sense, at our age, is cosmic:
Foreign and sweet, and

The lunar desire in your eyes was
Something to pine after; your hand caressing
My cratered, teenage-bumped face.

The breeze of your femininity had crept
Into my lonely orbit like a satellite snapshotting a
Pluto sunset, and

When we’re young, it’s much harder to forget
Those who kissed us, because if our

Memories are undersized stars, then your kiss
Was a comet or a meteorite or something celestial like that.