Spring is a placeholder.
It reminds me of my brother;
tight little curls around his ears that made his face turn red
when someone pointed them out.
I held my breath–a little too long–because it was just a stupid game, probably.
But I would not lose face, not in front of him.
Someone had to show him, someone had to put him in his place.
But now he lives in Charlotte and his daughter doesn’t call anymore.
I didn’t think that heroes could live in such a boring place.
He was so in love, once.
I can remember trying to imagine what that must have been like.
I can see myself being him, trying to be someone else.
But I can’t even picture her now. What was her name?
It doesn’t matter.

Spring is a placeholder.
It reminds me of a time;
I held my breath, a little too long,
but I would not lose face, not in front of my brother.
Someone had to show him, someone had to put him in his place.
But now he lives in Charlotte and his daughter doesn’t call anymore.
He was so in love, once.
I had tried so hard to imagine what that must have been like.
I can’t even picture her now. What was her name?
It doesn’t matter.

She doesn’t matter–he tells himself.

If I am you and you are me,
let us pass by one another,

in the ether:

Alone, but not lonely.

Maybe next time it will be easier.
I thought we get to keep just a little.
You were something familiar
and I was safe.

Did we happen to catch a glimpse?

I’ll take your socks and you can have my insecurity.

Grief;
It’s an unstoppable force
meeting an immovable object.

I made a whole universe once.
It didn’t take the edge off.

I’m not done punishing the heavens
for taking you away from me.

I wrote you and poem,
Just because, or just because I love you.
Either way, I did,

and I do.

It’s your silence.
There was a time that I hated you for it.
Just say anything, I would say.
I can’t, you didn’t say.


Now I just wish I could hear you be silent,
one more time.

It was such a race.
Our boots both casting earthy clay,
perfect little symbols born of tread and sand and sweat.
It’s the ocean, I think: I can smell it.
It’s stone and sand and salt,
but then I know it’s in my mouth. It’s blood.

I look away.
This needs to be dignified, I think.
I’m taking a life. We both got dressed up for this.
The terror, the resolute acceptance of this day being my last,
it’s replaced by the blue-green pallor of your cheeks
and the knowledge that only one of us can come back.

It’s a lie we tell ourselves though;
we all died that day.
And none of us are coming back.