district of columbia.

had i been guilty of those fabrications,
i'd have left me too, by god and Gods.
many fictions have been donned by myself,
and none so much as the character who could show you
such adoration.

painter, o', i looked at you as sun on breathless acres,
though in passing seasons as light fractured in panes of plated glass.
and the silhouette meant you still showed up.

i heard the rain, you know it.

the bathtub filled with bottles
where there once were hands instead,
which cupped the stories.
they bang together ungraciously,
no concept of what will sound a proper cadence,
all hollow space filled with merciless spinning
where there once were maps of every coast and in between.
i never heard you sigh again, i only heard you breathe.

the bottles floating endlessly, you tied them sweetly,

addressed to home.

had i been your greatest fear,
at least i would remain inside your backwards glance.
but i know you're sleeping soundly now,
no light to pale your face.



i have only loved survivors.