This week has been great;
I will keep the streak going.
I am in control.

I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.

I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.

II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.

if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.

my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.

III.
the last time we had ***
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.

you never:

acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,

ask me what my tattoos mean,

but always ask me if I’m pregnant.

you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.

I'm afraid that no one will ever see your soul again
but I'm more afraid that someone will.

You would find me occupied with tomorrows weather , flat pickin' guitar , a recipe for minced meat pie , the color of the moon and the stars in the sky ..
A grandson changing everyday , granddaughter posing for a picture , turnips in the garden , the chickens in the yard , junk mail in the box , a Persimmon tree up the road ..
Horehound candy , pitch black coffee , toasted rye bread with blueberry jelly...
Dirt roads , antique barns and tractors , cattle on the move and a plug of tobacco .

You stupid sonofabitch.
I hope you burn less than you did when you were here,
and that maybe you finally caught up with the monster you were chasing.
We still drink to you
on days like this,
Glasses raised to the day you showed up,
Broken bottle on the back porch to forget the day you left.
Oh, and pay your mother a visit sometime, she misses you so.
She's been saving lives in your name for years now,
but the kids are still dropping like flies.
Tell her it's okay,
that she's done her part.

I guess I just miss you.
That heart of gold is still the talk of the town, but I remember the black fingers wrapped around it much better,
And I want you to know that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I didn't save you.
So tonight I'll drink
Not to the ashes on the mantel or the flowers on the grave.
But to you.
Happy birthday, Matt.
Wherever you are.