That long November weekend among naked trees and family units; and your high school boyfriend. Three months into college, and your old room at home’s a time capsule: fading posters on the wall, eyes on the ceiling. 3 AM and still no sleep. Sitting on the window sill smoking, that last bike ride through the neighbourhood light years ago and in another galaxy. Everything changes — and nothing does.
I’m falling out of love with you,
I’m reclaiming the shrill skeleton of my body,
I want back the suns & the synapses,
I want back all my breath you swallowed.
You are the poster child of haunted museums,
you’re the mountain lion parched;
sometimes I still find you in alleyways,
your reverse blooming in Oklahoma,
how you hid your thirst for girls like
waning moons and they named you
the ghost of gaunt guts. I’m setting your
throne on fire, love. I’m undoing
your hellbent tragedy. And somewhere,
on a rainy afternoon, you will taste me
for one last time in your mouth like arson.