I.  I am the reason I never had more than a minute’s chances with anything.  Sitting on steps with you became the same thing as being in love, because we were together--you, me, and cigarettes.  Strange became anything, holding court in a playground planetarium and I took closer to be a state of mind.

II.  Nothing ever dies, and I have beautiful sore spots that flower like fields in blood and lymph and bruises.  Your fingerprints were black on my neck and it was nothing short of spectacular that heavy silence and the same song on endless repeat even failed to slow you down.

III.  My greatest love is the possibility and words that mean nothing to anybody except someone I used to be.  I was the stranger and I shot myself four times to spend eternity in purgatory here with you.