My heaven
is knowing you exist,
And that you once loved me.
My hell
is all that followed.

I'd never call you perfect,
It wouldn't fit.
Perfection is ugly.
Perfection is cruel.
I could never love
Such a tidy measure.
Give me—

the maelstrom of passion,
the divine silence
Present in your heart.
Your
Perfect
Imperfection.
That's all I ever saw.

I wish
I found it easy
To cut my losses
Instead of my wrists.

Friday night.
I feel my bones forgotten
Disassembling character.
Ghostly lungs still breathing,
Shallow.
Heartstring,
Hanging from the gallow.
Gone
Before the morning sun.

You never come back.
I say good-by when I see you going in the doors,
The hopeless open doors that call and wait
And take you then for--how many cents a day?
How many cents for the sleepy eyes and fingers?

I say good-by because I know they tap your wrists,
In the dark, in the silence, day by day,
And all the blood of you drop by drop,
And you are old before you are young.
          You never come back.

People talk about sacrifice,
People talk about devotion.
People say:
"I'd take a bullet for you."
I would have
For you.
And when you left —
*It felt like I had.

This pain —
Now my only duty.
It is my God and sun.
It is my strength and weakness,
As all else fell away.
It is the echo of her name.
It is all the roads in Greece,
I walk them daily
To know each crack.
It is all that I have left —
My currency and shame.
This pain.