it’s autumn; you’re still dead and I have no one to tell
because you’re still dead.
you really did it this time, so caught up in the moment.
I remember you in motion under streetlights,
running fast to catch the bus, we laughed so hard we cried.
open casket, you were never quiet for long: I was waiting
for a sign, for you to jump up and spook me;
I wouldn’t have been mad, I swear.
you’re still dead but in the metro, listen:
a shock of purple hair—and I was waiting for you
to turn around. of course, you’re still dead
but it was so like you to light up your cigarette
with one foot out the door the other inside.
that means something, but I won’t bother you
with metaphors.
look, I’ll let you go—I know you must be busy,
and that this is getting long-winded.
long overdue, what can I say: I like pressing fingers
into open wounds. you’re still dead but
if I could hear you say it one more time
I think it would fix me:
leave a message after the dial tone
they disconnected your number last week.
