midmorningtexts,youstayedatmyplaceithoughtofyouatworkikissedyougo­odbyethenicriedonthehoodofacarwipingthwindowsicrackedjustabitjust­tolightacigarettebreathingouttoxicthingsiturnedintoandthetextslam­entingthesnowstormthatbroughtalossoflovebetweenus.

sometimes a month

cannot heal a wound

and neither can two

not even a year.

not even you.

it felt like i was lying for nine lives,

but its only been forty seconds.

only i have the gift to fix my mistakes,

with something slightly less wrong.

but no God can repaint the faces

i spent drinking countless chasers,

just to forget and find nothing at all.

all the while, you cried then i cried,

and if i could hold fire,

i'd be the first to turn into ash.

and if you had a voice

for the rest of this story,

you would say nothing at all,

comfortably away from this black hole

but on its outskirts,

on a desperately fleeing star,

im laid down on a lawn chair,

with a bit too much to drink.

counting each second

for a ride I'm too scared to try,

afraid of the direction my soul will go.

until then I will cuddle each meteor,

and cocoon in their craters,

praying to the unforgivable

atmosphere

that the cosmos can recreate

you.