Aristotle,
You preached that
Logic is the basis of humanity.

I tried reason.
I penned a list:
"PROS—I will be happy (when he is around)
CONS—I will be miserable (when he is gone)
 
He is gone"

Aristotle,
Your logic is crumpled up
At the bottom of my wastebasket.

You said, "I'm going to college—I'm not dying",
but you might as well have.
Now you exist to me as the dead do—
As a ghost;
an old photograph;
a sigh.

You haunt me
in old Chet Baker songs;
at four in the morning
when I wonder if you still suffer from insomnia;
when I walk down Broad with sweaty palms;
or even that nickname—I always hated that name—
but I liked the way it sounded when you said it.

And you're alive—
picking your fingernails; breathing—
when I can't stand the lights
and I shut the door to let
darkness settle in my skin; into my pores; in my head.
It's then when I realize:
I've never felt more human—
and my heart has never been so raw.

I once likened you to a supernova;
it occurred to me during a memory of
Mr. Lanzilotta's awful goatee—
of how it twitched and curled,
unfurling, as he formed words about
black holes and dark matter.

"When a star's core collapses,
it creates a supernova."
I envied such a
truly noble death.

Fact: supernovae can outshine galaxies—
but they implode quickly.
Within a matter of weeks, supernovae may
     run
           out
                 of
                     nuclear fuel.

You lasted a month
before being swallowed by
darkness and space gas—
but how bright your flame;
how brilliant your spectrum;
how lovely—and melancholy—your
pervading,
fading
stardust.

Since dust has settled in the discord here
And life has fallen into stalemate now,
With doubt--a prowling, crippling louse--and fear
Subsiding, let us call an end to vows.
As winter sheds the husk that summer bred
Of whispers, wilting warmth, and golden light,
I claim pathetic, hapless dreams misled,
Condemning foolish hopes to suffer blight.
Upon a field of blinding stars we blazed
Until the color dimmed to mute pastel;
O sweet rebellion--quelled before we raised
Defeated heads and bid a cold farewell.
        Against my will, I dwell on past regret
        And memories of summer's silhouette.

For the past few months—three, to be exact—
deep crescent moons
of crushed violets and ash
have framed my eyes.

*Have you been sleeping well?

The frog-spotted leaves fading from the trees picked by sticky, little hands
Remind me of all the seconds that have passed
And inversely, the infinity that lines every moment;
The infinite me’s that have been slaughtered and reborn—
Eyes peeking through the ash, stretching my neck
Out to the world that will warm my fleshy, new skin.

But my body’s made a home of the doldrums,
Clipped feathers and heavy air, breathing strangulation—
How hard it is for me to see you in color;
You were black and white—
A noir film in high contrast, a classic tragedy:
Touched fingertips before wilting into static.
Our great debut, and now we are left,
Our bones growing brittle,
To grasp for loneliness with someone else.

And I could not stand, vacant
As an empty room, so I filled myself with
Wrath like warm exhaust fumes,
Overturning memories like a systemized holocaust
Just to liken you to a shadow puppet.

But the curation of spite lights the crook of your mind that shelters the
Remnants and splinters of separate, past lives you
Shed like a sleeve of skin.
Slivers of frozen time like artifacts at attention,
Preserved and obscured beneath a smudged pane of glass
That grows thicker and filthier—
Here lies validation for all the fruitless pain; blind happiness; lost time.

With dust collecting upon breath,
I find you who was once the blush that quilts the earth in cotton before the settling sun
And remember your comfort: a sweet cherry lozenge
Melting and staining the inner corners of lips;
Burgundy of heavy habit, of restless nights and dry, shut mouths;
Of stale disappointment through knotted fists,
Yet the warmth of a matted childhood blanket,
We had in a glance.

The few quivering embers that lay
In the back of our throats suffocate:
We are ash
And crushed violets of dark circles and the beauty in failure.
But while memories fade into ghosts and people into fog,
You will always be
Two blue diamonds, in a wash of golden light
Yawning through the veil of smoke and seconds,
Withholding your spectrum.