i know your story. i know your lampshade gossip,
your dead star musings, the sound your throat made
when you swallowed water, the sound of your cough after
choking back wine. you are
dead because we stopped saying your name. you are
dead because we scrubbed the floors last night,
because we bleached the counters and dusted the shelves.
i forget what you smelled like — your perfume, your
pheromones guzzled by my hungry, gaping step #2.
do you remember us gasping for breath on the lakeshore
when we both almost drowned? do you remember our
steadfast starship, the prow we pulled through galaxies
tinged delicate and holy?
broke your headboard against writhing, forgetting our
hymns, our black hole homes. crumpled them in small
fists and pounded on kick drums to drown out flare-ups.
you died on a night like this one, and
i know your story. fed it to hacking lungs and shaking
hands, pulled it off shelf and presented it, consumable,
consummated with a splash of holy water on your
gravestone. whispered words of your glory days gloria,
your somnambulist song, and i — i haven’t
said your name since.