And so here we are again,
You scrap of nothing.

Half of my hair, half my eyes
And all that I ****. You take me

To the side and calm me down
With my own thoughts.

I say “that’s what he would
Have wanted”, the he is you

Of course, whatever you are.
I think that you’re a Bible,

The one on my bookshelf.
There is still a folded page from

When I was seventeen. Seven pages
In, more than the years my mother

Has lasted in matrimony and more
Than enough to disbelieve what

You believed. I am far too sobre
And too far gone tonight and so

It is typical for you to come to mind.
“You *******” I think to you, or

Somebody else. It doesn’t matter.
What a perfect excuse you gave me

For the chip I bear
And the cross on my shoulder.

Or whatever.