roxxee

"I am on a mission. A mission from God", you say. I watch as you tap your cigarette filter on the table. (All I can think of are the scars on your arms underneath your sleeves. They are screaming but never bleed. Not since...) I remember nights when thunder shook the world outside and I hid in your bathroom smoking menthols and you sat in the bathtub humming and drawing stars on the tiles with a Sharpie. Lovely stars that coiled and faded and blazed.) I know what will happen. I know you will be gone soon in a rush of water and blood and a gleaming silver thing will be all that's left of your agony. It all starts to decend to darkness but I can't let it go. Not yet. This is the last dream you see. I have to tell you. I am done with this. "I'm in love", I say.

"He's beautiful and he loves me. I'm going to get married and have babies and grow old."

"You hate aging."

"I know...So did you."

It was all so cosmic, you were the one. Reading Ginsberg and tearing pages out of our poetry books to burn into eternity. I watch the memory of your last poem rising up to meet the air and I know I can never have you back

You weep. "I'm a memory. A dream. I'm dead and gone away. Wake up..."



Wake up...



A carnival of lights and sounds and moans and screams and laughter and all this infinity and why? Why? You're gone.