He could feel the way water moved
when it stuck to the windows, how it slipped
and dripped off the poppies
onto his cigar box filled with heroin
escapees. Even its softness can drown,
He was drowning.
Inside the greenhouse the found
him already emptied, lying
on the ground with the white hospital
wristband tied, shotgun resting
beside. His face missing.
I understand
why he did it, “It is better to burn
Out than to fade away.”
He wanted to stop the sinking.
He wanted to burn.
No one saw the water tangled in his teeth,
pressed up against his lips, consuming.
Or heard the drenching within his voice
as he sang. If I had known he had a gun,
even when he swore he didn’t.
Now all I can hear are pulsating echoes
Of strings that no longer sound like waves crashing,
and his raw, gunge screams now mute
And rippling away.