He spoke of innocence before me— I didn’t
ruin that. I ruined
the narrative he spun through melody,
that world’s axis—
Said my leaving drove him. And every
mockingbird was screaming his hits—
What air was there
to breathe? There’s more than one
silence to be bent beneath; words root
through these undergrounds. I know
all too well how irrational
the dead are made to seem. If death
never ends, I’m the least of his worries—
He knows. His choices
arrive each dawn. Recognitions that keep
the men I meet in torment. Tongue
tied, he couldn’t turn
fast enough. Ran away
saying he dreamt of me,
nightly, telling him to let go—
I assume he wakes incensed. Of course,
I disappeared. Whose safety are you
unpinning with this line of questioning?
His music incites riots. An anger
you keep finding it beneficial to ignore—
