If he saved himself
I would be happy.
If he had a little jar of air
I would be happy to poke
some breathing holes.
Summer ends as his swollen
body returns only to be eaten
by tiny bugs and worms.

Grass is greener over here…
a ghost is fog that lingers near.
Try to forget his voice. It’s weird
although I feel pain it feels good to…

Write letters to the dead
given souls can read.
It’s easier to forget,
continue with the dream.
He didn’t save himself,
instead, brought his sister’s
lips to air and sank like a stone
thrown in the river…

Maybe he is happy
floating in the weeds…
Lungs long suffocated
far from air that I still breathe…

Our jars covered with dust,
hold nothing but stale emptiness.
Chains that locked our hearts
together grew rust and fell away…
Nothing really matters down there.
Nothing up here ever changes…


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