while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty

*you know
i never echoed until you died

I want to be your first
And I want to be your last.

I want to be the first person you text
as you wake up in broad daylight
And I want to be the last you see
as you yawn and call it a night.
I want to be the first to hear that joke
you thought up in a Biology class
And I want to be the last you’d want
to respond with a few vacuous laughs.

I want to be the first you tell of
a scalding sensation on the way home
And I want to be the last ingredient
to your creation — your critic over the phone.
I want to be the first you ask
what jacket and shoe colors suit you more
And I want to be the last to
be blamed if your heart feels a sore.

I want to be the first to see you draw up
a plan for a dream you’ve had for years
And I want to be the last beside you
if it fails and you’re drenched in tears.
I want to be the first thing that comes
to you when you hear the word “happiness”
And I want to be the last to know that
all along, what I’ve been rejecting is your best.

I want to be your first
And I want to be your last
But I can never be your first,
A question still if I will be your last.
For now, I am happy that I am
Neither your first nor your last
Rather, that I just am.

I HOPE ALL YOUR T-SHIRTS SMELL LIKE ME AND YOUR BED SHEETS ARE WRINKLED FROM WHERE I SLEPT AND YOUR SHOWER DRAIN IS FULL OF MY HAIR
AND I HOPE
THAT WHEN
YOU USE
YOUR SOAP
YOU THINK
ABOUT HOW
IT TOUCHED
MY BARE SKIN.