a few years back you drowned
yourself nightly, face-down
and bloated, infatuated
with the moon's pearly depressions.
in darkness, I’d remembered you as
the theoretical portrait you used
to define death to different
philosophers. but now, a long
and simple time exceeds your careful
skin, your embryonic forms bruising
beneath quietudes where i had promised
you absolution and developed things,
and you kept still like a planet.
the letters you wrote from loved to lonely
were there when you peeled back my teachings,
because the skin beneath my thoughts
was your one taste of honest stillness
without newspaper words calling themselves
over, heady and apologetic, like lineal
beauties mating with the ambience.
you prophesized your own downfall
and romanticized it, noting only
the longevity of the paper doll people with
champagne sincerities frothing from their lips,
instead of the muffled pulse they carried
in weakness. and when you scar,
not beautifully, you will begin
to honor the treasure of waking up.