At a bus stop on Thursday, July 10th –
Less of a snap, more of a crack: no clean breaks here. Like a branch that has rotted and ruptured, save for one stalk of pliable new growth. It bends so easily.

Weeping on Friday, July 11th –
Even my skin is burnt, cooked unevenly in a moment of hopeless wishful thinking. The sun only reached the skin that drapes over my ribcage, falling from the cinch at my neck. It has gotten harder and harder to breathe. My idols all melt in the heat, while the sun hardens my unwilling skin. Now all that’s left is the mess those heroes left behind, and a body too solid to clean them all up.

Drunk on Friday, July 18th –
I had never wanted to miss my grief. Never to wish it well, never to watch it go, and still know. (Still, no.) Only wanted it to wander during the day. It did, for a spell–came home at dusk, gathered on my slippery skin. Slid out the door one morning before I woke. And then: dead air. For years, only soft static, lapping like waves. Present as this shifting earth. Slow as a receding tide. Now it visits only occasionally. We only remember one another distantly. (Nothing to say, nowhere to go.)

When it goes, it only remembers me as static.

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