You made it subtle, with feigned indifference; appearing blank but not quite empty. i raised a glass to our shore town. you called me boyish, and left me to think about it. i'm not your pharmacist, or the man who made you sick. i clasped you in the palm of my hand yet you fell through the cracks in my fingers.

Unfinished paintings litter her bedroom. under the surface i picture my figure. glossed over collages of sapphire, i lay latent, neither treated nor varnished. abandoned brushes, with bristles all matted, are left to dry on the floor of your attic. convinced there was so much else to tend to, i dried halfway to life on her dresser.

So i crawled into your head and i robbed you of your sleep, while you resurrected me just for closure and relief. my nerves paused to take a breath, as if asking for a truce, while you resisted love to fuel trustafarian pursuits. that same night i dreamt of you, the earth shook me to my core. gold thread wrapped around my neck as i collapsed onto the floor. on a highway far away, i indulge my former self, tracing back my every step to remember what i lost.