Boys I hardly spoke to gave me cigarettes, advice, and then we heard it on the radio: two cars, not far from four p.m. One life, a half, two lives and then the sun went down on quiet roads and hospital beds, made up again before we knew that they’d been full.
Boys behind my eyelids give me chills. It’s no surprise I close them, don’t say what I know. Advice and unsmoked cigarettes become soft, morbid artifacts. The sun goes down on quiet lies; "I can still change my mind, it’s not the end of the world. I’ve still got time.”
Eyes rolling on the bed, mumbling at the air, “I get it, I get it.” You said, “What’s wrong? Is something wrong? Are you having a bad trip?” You said, “Please be calm. Be calm.” You led me outside. Barefoot in the light, I followed you to your car. You drove to a bridge, led me to the water’s edge, gave me a pill, said, “Relax.” I stared out from the shore and let the water pour into me through my eyes. I said, “Can’t you see that the water’s me and you and I and all of this, we’re all one. We’re all one.”