Reminded me of that night:
from the 30th floor of your eyes,
your tears lept, committing suicide.
I shaved my head in the hotel bedroom
while you curled up in the shower.
When I heard the water turn off,
the bathroom lights were off.

I tried to calculate how many bedsheets
I would need to make a noose.
Then I decided you weren't worth it.

Sitting on the floor with you, I
watched your hopes collapse. You blamed
me for what I did, and a little for what
I didn't do. What I did do was hurt you.
I slammed the back of my head into the
wall I was against, you elbowed me hard.
You sobbed and I felt weak and I was. Weak.
I just wanted it to be over, for you to
stop crying, for me to have an explanation
that could wash this mess away.

I'm still trying to piece together exactly
what I really meant to say.