this was unreal—not a statement
for the few among us two who cannot take
a metaphor and run with it:
if you and i slipped apart then you would be
unalive—at least with me. if we were to drift
like iceflows from one another i would think myself nothing
in whatever form of heaven you have planted
from Burning Joan of Arc.
you were once ready for it and i was once asleep,
waiting to see if your poems were in fact
too personal—it was something i wished false
i wished dead itself because being alone in your bed
is alright; but not knowing if that would be
forever true is murder—suicide really.
i know not these boys
under which you fell
but i know the plight of wishing to sleep
warmed by your nakedness and i thought you
would be that pillow where i could rest
my head—i was king of something and you
we(a)re a queen and that something was
death—we were bound to that, we simply did not know
when it would be. but you made a poem
and i may have cried.
i still do. remember that. i never wish
to write a poem about yours—
i am the first among us doomed,
now more than ever, i suppose.