He shot himself in June
and his blood fell like
early-summer’s rain
against a background
of tortured skies filled
with precipitation pain.

She drowned under a
veil of water in a ceremony
of let’s-end-my-life-today,
not a marriage, nor commitment
or a party of Dutch courage.

They kissed each other before
they went their separate ways;
into to the summer
or into the bathroom, for her;
‘cos those are the places that are locked away.