lying together in the back of a flatbed truck, we make three irrufutable points;
a: that we have managed to outlive romeo and juliet
b: that imperfection may, in fact, be perfect, and
c: we are untouchable
and none of us saythe obvious, that we have long since passed
the (d:) point of no return
we drink cheap wine from paper cups and it tastes
like vinegar, but no one can deny
the grandeurof it all. we are royalty, owners
of sea and sky and spray-painted sidewalk,
and her hand is on my thigh when you kissed me.
you like to quote shakespeare in the spaces between
conversation. i thought it was clever, but she laughs
and calls you pretentious, blowing smoke rings and bubbles.
he's dead, she says, and we aren't. these are our moments.
this is our stage. then she kisses us both and laughs.
four days later you're shaking me awake, nevermind the hangover or the stink of sweat. your eyes are bright
with a shine that's sorrow, not cigarettes. you spit the news
and then you throw her flamingo ashtray against the wall,
break its plastic neck.
goddamn it, you say, and it's not real
until i see you crying. i stare at her silhoutte
in my sheets.
she can't be gone, i say. shakespeare
is dead. not her.
but from there it is forgetting, the slow fade of detail
and description. i cannot see the curve of her shoulder
or the rings on her fingers, and i wish i had thought to memorize
the sound of her laugh.
there are no photographs. there is nothing
but a closed casket and a concrete marker. after the funeral
we drink for days and never talk. she has made us
a broken thing. two sides of a triangle cannot be a whole.
you take flowers to her grave and read her the kind of poetry
she hated. when i ask why, you smile. finally you say
because it would piss her off, stupid selfish bitch, and i understand
completely. we were not enough for her. we gave her ourselves,
and we were not enough to hold her down.
in the end, this is our truth.you close your book and say, i love her.
and i say, yes.