March winters last longer than we thought they did. there's spring-stop angels a story higher, spitting icicles off your rooftop. But we're busy. we're never growing up. March is too long.

We sit in bed alone chanting **** this body **** this body I
Hate this ******* body. And then the light's up. We belong in darkness. You are the dark but I belong in darkness. God said Jesus please forgive me but I need this body more than you do. Did you say that too?

I watched the last time your eyes grew dim and shut down in front of me. Like an old machine rusty-churning for you only once more. It's just clockwork, just churning. On and off. Just the churning, barely. Nothing more. Lights down, on and off. But we were in your room and I was the one who had to go home.

I noticed you had a bruise then. And I've heard it's gotten worse. Every day it's taking over. The romantics say it's heart-shaped but I know it's just trapped blood. And it will get bigger if you fill it up with problems.

You didn't even have the heart to complete your own mistake. And now my mind is just you in a bubble of darkness, in the land of second chances. Stay there. I think it's easier to kick someone out when you have the home field advantage. I went home. I hear you're on  your way up top.

maybe we will never grow old. When you get up to the roof will you tell the angels my name?