ode to a dead friend
sometimes i wish it was me instead.

sometimes when i think of you
it is when i am kissing his lips
i envision the teeth that would clash clumsily,
how we’d laugh, and i would smell your breath of stale peppermint

sometimes when i think of you
it is when i’m alone in my room
my hands are now yours - large with long fingers
curious and wanting as they wander in the warmth between my thighs

sometimes when i think of you
it is when i cry myself to sleep
i scream into the pillow, that smells like your skin - the sun
and i think it is time i stop thinking about you.

then there are times when i think of us
we are rubbing noses under the stars
i tell you about my dreams that are little but you still listen,
and i think i have fallen in love.

i don't remember your face,
or the taste of your lips
on a hot summer's night,
your hands glued to my hips.
i don't remember your smell
of cheap men's cologne,
or the dark of the room
where you left me alone.
i don't remember a thing,
is what i wish i could say
but i still remember you,
and your dumb kissable face.

he swore to me he was a man of god
a man of god who performed the ungodly
he had a rosary wrapped around his arm
pearl white beads strung around his protruding veins
the crucifix dangled between his thumb and index finger
the same thumb caressing my bud
the same index finger soon to pluck out the petals of my flower
i, starved, took a bite of the apple.

as we shared the fruit in a forbidden kiss
i thought to myself:
“did jesus die for this?”