I tried to call you a month ago
to you sing you the last song I wrote,
but you weren't home.
Tomorrow you will find me
resting near the river.
You can take my body
to the boneyard,
but please do not weep.
I will be there with you
as you kneel by my headstone
and smoke until your lungs bleed.
I will be the flowers at the plot;
I will be the raindrops
clinging to your sweater.
(p.)