N.B. told you Trampoline Park would feel stupid someday.
somewhere you’ll be doing your own thing,
and that’s cool. how’s your mama?
I didn’t fuck anybody else, months go by, whose dick do I suck next
my t-shirts are creased, and I’m not speaking to anybody.
how’d we get this way Soulmate #3?
you’re a ghost looking at me in the mirror, stood,
breathing on my neck
and our past feels like centuries and centuries ago.
sometimes I cut myself open and it’s like you were never really there,
not in my vessels, popping with loss.
all the beers you’ve been drinking, leaving me,
Miss Heartbroken at 5 AM with nothing but cereal to cry into,
empty KFC buckets and an unused gym membership,
look at all my money disappearing.
I used to look at your old love letters
and want to use them and your body for wood,
set you both alight.
but then I remember all the things you taught me,
like what it feels like to be loved, what losing does,
and how you may never regret where you place your dick next.
how you may never regret leaving.
sometimes I look at our old photos and I remember
how you were never there, towards the end.
and the irony that we’d switched places,
and that it was me throwing themselves from great heights.
i pulled you back from the edge,
you just kicked me,
and i wondered if it’s okay to drown in the moon’s stare
the paranoia that i felt as i glided from kiss to kiss
from male to male, from no one to everyone all at once
and y’see Soulmate #3 you expected me to go off the rails for you
but i died instead in the name of me,
and i guess Soulmate #3 that it feels weird in my veins
to know somehow you’re still a human and you’re somewhere in this world,
drinking, unidentified, and tired,
and i’m somewhere in this world, better off.