There was a story I read to you
from the internet about a man
who paid his dead girlfriend's phone bill
for months after her untimely demise
just to hear the sound of her voice.

You asked me if I'd do that if I were in his place and you were gone.

You're gone now.
And I'm still calling.

I quit pills the day you left me
on the stairwell.
"Not by choice." I hear you say
in my ear, in my phone, in my dreams.

I quit crying about you that day too.
By choice.
But your name is my favorite drug.
Not just the sound of it,
the way each syllable hits my veins
like whiskey fire, but the ritual of it.
The way it feels rolling across my tongue.

There isn't a building tall enough
to jump off in this town.

1) The sky is the color of cracked television screens and in your sleep you're mouthing silent screams that sound like needles on vinyl.

2) I'm scared you've done lasting damage. I'm scared I was a monster before I even knew you.

3) The moon is just a paper plate and the stars are all LiteBrites.

4) Pictures of girls that are prettier than you, cigarette burned around the edges.

5) Betraying myself with every line I write. But my old heart beats like your knuckles on my ribs. Like your teeth on my lips.

6) Romeo and Juliet except the Capulets are pill heads and Romeo is an orphan.

7) I'm getting pretty good at not controlling my moods. It's the only thing that makes me feel like the passenger seat of your mustang did.

8) The alcohol burns but only half as bright as you do in my heart where you sculpt horrible ice sculptures with cigarette butts and bics.

9) So now smoke is all I breathe, gasping deeply at the chemicals that help me purge you from my system like a sickness.

I locked myself out of the apartment,
so I find myself sitting in the stairwell.
The same place you left me days ago.
Weeks ago.
Months ago.
The air is a little warmer but it still bites
wintry and frigid like your teeth on my neck
when you were biting back the screams I made you
scream.

I strike the Bic lighter
and flame erupts.
Like a miniature Pompeii,
Heat searing images of people,
Places, things, nouns and verbs
across my forearm on ****** skin.
Your face and words taking their place
Inbetween the small tattoo on my wrist
and the cigarette burns.

There's an airport in my heart
Where I stand in the terminal
waiting on your flight to come in
so I can kiss you just the way I did
when you boarded.