I stayed up late last night writing you this letter
by desk lamp while you were three streets
down in Nowhere drowning in boxed wine.
If you got caught, the box'd be bigger with iron
bars and a bench where you'd sit and reminisce
about two hours ago when you were too gone
to sit down. Mismatched couch cushions
and black light posters of Marley and psychosexual
women in spandex. Then there's you with a cup
in your hand and a hole in your skirt, dabbing
the corners of your mouth with my late night
confessions. Thank you.

he asked what I wanted to do. I said
write poetry
or
die.
he said
they were the same.