poem: what he almost gave me was not his to give

we are not yet dust, we are still

holding on, breathing carefully; the solar

lights in the club

flickeronoff, onoff. I thought you were beautiful once

and especially, as you smiled at me more

and more, you become like art.

Your eyes turned

from drained out blue to exotica; you went up in clouds

like ghosts do at midnight,

like ghosts do on the day of the dead: when skulls

bleed odd bright colors and people

sing and almost sing and then stop.


And now I sit here and remember and almost accept

it: this is how it felt to be alone,

after you were a chance. I can’t even


you in my palms, you drain out

like water

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