I’ll ever write anything to touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to drag my fingers
across these sticky keys and
Come up with something stark…
I want you to know the truth,
That death is a cruel lover…
That her insides are soot-sour and soiled.
That you put too much stock in everyone
We: a room full of strangers
Clawing at your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke.
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set in motion the truth.
I’m done fighting truth.
As I move through the calendar,
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no
The frame of your face falls
From its perch on occasion
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
From life’s triviality.
But you gave up your voice, brother.
You handed it to me when you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.
All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.