do you lay on the floor
wishing for everything you had before?
When you get drunk
do you sit in your bed
thinking about things you wish you had said?
When you get drunk
do you take a nice knife
put it to skin and watch yourself slice?
When you get drunk
Do you stare at the ceiling
wondering if there’s some better feeling?
When you get drunk
do you lay on the ground
asking yourself why he stuck around?
When you get drunk
do you look in the mirror
promise that girl she'll see things much clearer?

My cousin's eyes
Your loud truck
The leaves falling in Marquette

My mother's hair
"4 Missed Calls"
The end of your cigarette

My new scars
Old Coke cans
The soak on your blanket

My love for you
Our Scottish blood
The songs in the basement

These red things
They haunt me
But I'm getting used to it

The knife
has
a slowness about it.
Politeness, a kindness.
It has
a grace period.


The gun
absolutely
does
not.

The daggers in your voice
they're the reason I fled.
No following me;
you stayed snug in your bed.
You stabbed me with my own
most shameful secret
when minutes before,
you promised you'd keep it.
I ignored all your calls
the words rang in my head
I don't think
I will ever
Forget what you said.

we're fading like the bite marks
i left on your skin

and we're as false as the fibs
you quickly caught me in

Love came easily to me

it was never sparse.


That's how


I touched so many others

trying to break your scarce heart.

Is it the red crescendoing of trees lining the icy lake?
Or the pebbles popping under the rubber wheels of my old car?
Is it the warmth of picking up wool scarves from their summer cocoons? Being shaken out and wrapped around cold necks?
Is it this lower state's familiar weather, blending brisk wind with bright sun? The way it heats the second-floor windows in the frigid mornings?
Is it the scents of sage and roasting meat floating through the door, welcoming me home?
Or the mismatched pairs of shoes kicked under the hallway bench?

It might be this last bit of Cabernet slowly tumbling to top my cup, or the ceaseless squeak of my childhood bed.
But yes, something calls me here, back to the beginning.
Back to the autumns of our home.