I went there without you.
I followed rivers to their oceans
as another after another cigarette
hung from the corner of my mouth.
I sat underneath a Seward sunset
and argued with God about
how I didn't want to die
and He kept telling me to
give living a try.
So, I met Satan in
San Diego, and we took a
walk down the Pier as I
folded origami.
I told him I was afraid
of death, but he was distracted
by blondes in bikinis,
so I threw the crane
into the water and watched
as it was devoured by the tide.

I sat with Jesus in Gethsemane
and asked Him if I had a bed in Heaven.
In return, He asked me to stay awake with him,
but the Klonopin was kicking in
and I was too tired to watch Him weep.

saplings
turned kindling
turned ash
all under the winter and fire
of my hands and my mouth
so fearful
of ghosts that
still draw blood
of wounds that
never healed the same
of things broken and left
broken
a self-preserving instinct

i was too in love
to be manipulated
i gave him more
than his years
knew how to hold
and the remainders
came spilling out
like floodwater
brown and thick
as eyes and november breath
it swam through his lungs
his shining, hopeful breath
a new conquest
to the absence
presence inevitably brings

Your mouth opening as it takes in
the bitter sweetness of an orange's
flesh

peel littering the worktops that
your grandmother spent hours
scrubbing down

scrubbing until the very eye of
the oak starred back at her

we don't have time for such
arduous chores, we don't look
at wood in the same way

we do not respect it, until
the sky spits out a spark

and the trees that held the
oranges, burn down

what are we now?