I remember the darkness before the flames
Remember when death called your name
So strange, we were all so young then

I remember you saying, the shadow was cast
Remember laughing, I’ll have your girl when you pass
So strange, it didn’t last

I remember the dead, the screaming eyes
Remember till I die
So strange, I never asked why

I remember thinking, never again
Remember going straight back in
So strange, had to win

I remember going out drinking with friends
Remember them asking me to explain
So strange, I never saw them again

I remember going over the hill
Remember the kills
So strange, no glory, such a bitter pill

I remember when I knew it was over
Remember how I didn’t die
So strange, why

I remember the day I walked away
Remember looking back
So strange, felt like yesterday.

You tipped me over. I spilled my words into your hands, they filled the creases in your palms and the spaces between your fingers. You held them as though they were malleable, crushed them with strength and shook them off as though they were something ***** that you couldn't get rid of. I still remember the night I found you trying to pick up the pieces, looking for the hidden message behind what I tried to tell you. Your knuckles ******, your face dripping with sweat, your eyes clothed in desperation. You replaced the heart on your sleeve with a broken one. You never gave me the parts of you that didn't need fixing. I wish you stopped blaming me for being the reason you're still filled with apathy, I wish you would of realized that I spent all this time looking for the right way to tell you I'm not what you're looking for. I wish everything I said was enough for you to leave, I wish my hands were strong enough to push you away. We both know that you're stronger than me; but I hope you wake up one day and realize I stopped loving you before you started. I hope one day you can wash your hands clean ; I hope you realize I never wanted to be the one weighing you down.

I can tell you about the girl.

Her freckles were beige constellations,
and her voice was husky and rasped
like birds before the churning of a storm.

She was weird and laughed at everything I said -
which made her even weirder,
because I'm only funny in certain photos
and in certain clothes.

Her left arm was covered in scars and burns.
"As you can tell, I'm right handed," she said.
Arthritis surrounded her wrists and other joints,
and all I could think about were my
grandmother's arthritis crippled hands,
and if the girl would thank the arthritis, one day,
for no longer allowing her to self-harm.

One of her feet were bigger than the other
and, when she walked, she would lose balance.
"I'm not sure if the world is too fast
or if I'm too slow. Then again," she winked,
"it's probably because of my feet."
I liked her because she treated me like a person,
but didn't take me as seriously
as I took myself.

I struggled with self-respect
and she struggled with a drug addiction.
Her arm was needle park
and sometimes she missed ******
more than she missed me.

She wasn't the type of girl to shake
without her drugs -
she'd, instead, talk about them
like they were old friends.
She understood them
more than she understood herself.

After a few months of ***
and, "I'll be sad when you leave,"s,
I called her my girlfriend
and she smiled.
Flecks of speckled angles, bright,
I saw her, first, she accepted
my night.

Five days later,
she overdosed on morphine.
I picked her up.

Her eyes were glazed over.
I said, "I love you,
but this is *******."
She cried and said,
"Forgive me."

I lain in bed, next to her -
next to the avoidance of death.
She asked how I was
and I said, "Everything I write is ****,
but I'm glad I can write ****** poetry
about how we'll be okay."

She asked, "We will be okay, right?"

I hope.

the old man sits
every Sunday
in a fold up chair
under the blue sky
on the corner of 40th street
by the gas station
he sells the sun
from the back of his van
of oxidized white
and teal pin stripes
and rust under the wheel hubs
while cars buzz around him
and addicts shuffle past
he sits alone
chair and ice chest
on concrete sidewalks
weeds stealing upward
between the cracks
I remember when
a man was murdered
down the street
in broad daylight
on electric avenue
two blocks from where the old man sits
he sells the sun
but nobody seems to stop by
except me
I drive up
every Sunday
he greets me with a smile
he knows my face
he cheerfully walks toward me
paper in hand
keep the change I always say
and he bows, grateful
earnest
he sells the sun
and I imagine I'm the only one
buying

you can't hear a whisper over a shout
screaming words from forked tongues
it's what they're blowing out
that we're taking into our lungs
all together, exhaling doubt
what a glorious sound that it becomes
the sound of us breathing out
a sweeter song was never sung