He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.

The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.

"I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came."

Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.

He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.

He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.

Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.

The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.

He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.

Nobody knows when
love will roll in and
waltz with your crippled
soul.
Nobody knows when
the chickens will come
home, or when the dog
will have its day.

I heard of a place where
silence blossoms into
flowers of wisdom, but
when I ask for directions,
nobody knows.

I taste the sadness of
the sky in every poisoned
drop of rain.
I was born to swallow it.
To be consumed by the
gray expanse.
I ask for the antidote,
the cure.
Nobody Knows.

What happened to the
street signs, the picket fences,
all the love and empty spaces?
People play games, and only
traces of humanity remain.
How do I pull the cord on
this parachute?
Nobody Knows.

I loved a star that never knew my name,
a silent flame,
fixed in the wreck of night.
Her stillness fooled me
into believing she sang.

She blinked once
in some long-dead century,
and I’ve lived ever since
by ghost light.

They say she's gone,
burned out or broken,
but I keep whispering psalms
to her afterglow,
drinking to the shape she made
in my sky.

I don't need the truth,
just the dream
of her burning.

Like something that waited for me,
not knowing I was too late
the moment I began.

Oh wise poet, tell me something that is true...

In life, there are two certainties:
“Death comes for all of us,
and every man pays taxes.”

There is no greater truth than this...

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.

In place of shadows
sunspots and creases
an embankment the gray of day seizes
      nailed to peril as a savior
      pushes out all traces in its labor

Dust and smoke
--the heartless void
above the faded ring of hope
      say a sated prayer
      for your fellow wayfarer

I'll shield your body between
the rays and surface
I'll be your dark clouded step
     when your own feet fail to purchase
     into the ground they sink

I got lost today in the women's hips
they were moving with feminine wild grace in the heat
I was lost in the subway's speed when a woman asked:
"Where did you get those shoes", "how lovely they are"
"From a small fair on the banks of a lake", I replied
"Oh, I just got back from Caprile the other day"
"I hate you", she said and she laughed
I got lost in her blue dress, I reciprocated
the sweetness of her smile

My master’s degree's a senior’s cruise - most of the other students are thirty and even forty-somethings. Good for them, for making the (75K) investment, it’s hard, and they all look very serious. I am too, of course.

It’s busy and constant - but it’s business analysis - it's not hard, like chemistry (see retrosynthetic analysis) and I’m lucky, I’m fresh off uni - used to working problem-sets and reading a couple of hundred pages a night.

That said, last week was wearying. I look forward to Fridays (like everyone), as the light at the end of the tunnel. Then my Grandmère FaceTimed me asking if I could go through an ‘investor deck’ and give her advice. “Look at it and give it to me.. unsweetened,” she said
(“Regarde-le et donne-le-moi... non sucré”).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘maybe I can tell van Gogh how to paint or Taylor Swift how to influence as well.

Surely, asking someone to do something late on a Friday afternoon is a minute refinement of cruelty, but I couldn’t say 'no'. That didn’t mean I was happy - I’m very jealous of my time. It’s too easy to toss the sauce on my routines.

I took an hour and looked it over, then gave her a poetic answer,
“It’s an options fog, masquerading as opportunity.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. I know that old bird, she’s nuanced. Was that a test? There was a smile in her voice.
Part of me longed to say, “Sometimes, like on a Friday night, one head’s better than two,” but I didn’t - because what night would be good for a surprise assignment?

Two hours later, Chella and I had some students over for cocktails. Four of them (2 guys 2 girls) were Japanese. Their English wasn’t great, but we had fun. They brought a bottle of nihonshu (sake), that stuff is like water - seriously.

So I made them martinis. Their eyes bugged out with their first sips, but first martini sips always taste like gasoline. It’s the second martini that starts to taste like mother’s-milk. Before long, they were smashed and then they started singing.

That was when the real fun started. They had karaoke songs on their phones. We sang, we danced. They taught us some songs and we did the same.

“At this point in our lives,” Chella said, “It’s important to bop so hard,” everyone cheered. What a slay - she was so real, so feral for that.
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Songs for this:
Something Every Day (Little Wizard Mix) by Swing Out Sister
Yoru ni kakeru by YOASOBI
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Our cast:
Chella - A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale and currently a Harvard Master's candidate.  She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale, currently a Harvard Master's candidate.
Grandmère, my very French Grandmother. Tiny, frail looking and privately very funny - but don’t underestimate her or ever try and bull$hit her - she's a Mogul.