This decaying mezzanine
rusted and green
was our favorite place
to self-destruct.
After trudging through the muck
we’d sit among the dust
and debris
of what used to be
sanctuary.
I remember
your bag held paraphernalia
your .38
and jewelry.
We told lies
and stole from people
who trusted me
so we could be out here
doing foilies. Each hit
was to feel more indifference.
I would
watch us cycle
through the same old cruelty
with the ambiguity
of afternoon tea. Our trauma?
It’s etched into us. Immutable
like your blood
still seeped into the varnish.
And as this memory of you lingers
rearranging itself into something
softer
I begin to recall your warmth
