(no subject)

[bleedthiscolour]

it's been
years
since that apartment,
staying up late
to the manic
clacking
of your mind
in tandem
with those keys,
making love in the next room
while you had
conversations with
the radiator,
scrawling poems
for horrible women
you needed
to be alright.
we let
the refrigerator
go,
condiments gathered mold
as dishes left
piles in the sink
& eventually,
we tossed
your mattress
from the
third
story
window;
it sailed to the street
below
like some
pirate
vessel
on a quiet sea.
i met you shouting
on boston streets
about the shortcomings
of telemarketing;
hands stained
with hair dye
& opiate residue,
joblessness
ringing our doorbell
as we resigned ourselves
to turning house keys,
writhing in hunger
& dull number two pencils.
you let
violent men
get their kicks
to pay the rent,
& if we could
beat anything
with our drunken
unemployment,
we wouldn't need
these stupid
drums.
oh, andrew
where have you gone?
you taught me
how to
conceal madness
& crawl
into self loathing,
the best ways
to never sleep
& get rid
of that shut in
feeling.
last i heard
you were suboxone
nights,
trapped
on the north shore,
throwing up in backseats
of cars.
i wonder if you write
gritty poems
& call
strange women,
i wonder
how your
parents are,
if the inflammation
of your mothers
spinal chord
has taken her.
i hope
it's better,
less desperate,
crowded
& cold.
i hope
it's just
as neverending
& equally
as rich
as the wood grain
of our floor
where we
practiced incantations,
avoided our landlords
persistence,
gathered ends
of cigarettes
& forgot to sweep.
i still
hear you calling
to the gold
that reflected
in the mornings
from the
house
next
door,
like alonso
battling
windmills,
thinking it might answer
your
pleas
for deliverance.