Much more than anything else,
really, I’d like to write you
a formal letter, explaining the ways
in which you suffered me, apologizing
for everything I  haven’t done and
all that I have—to seal the envelope
with waxy spit, praying you
send a near facsimile back.

Say it done. Even then
I couldn’t pain myself
enough to mail it. I did
consider it once crossing the
sidewalk—should my insides
******* the windshield of a
UPS truck, would you call it even,
at least commute my sentence?
I considered it, but in
all likelihood I knew
I’d recover tethered to some
hospital bed and become the
person who didn’t have
the muscle to pull it off.

After ******* in the woods
behind my house I fantasize seeing your face
see mine in a casket, open and well-lit,
draped with expensive flowers; you
fumble with wisteria,
buckle from hysteria
and slip down the velvet steps, unbecoming
like stuffing squeezed from a torn pillow.
I go inside, make a sandwich and
calculate how many days I have loved you.