a painting hung all wrong.in a dream.we find him strung up in our garagewashing line taut. neck bulging.i covered someone's eyes.stopped them from remembering,almost familar featuresand blue blue blue blue wide open eyes.where's someone to cover mine?i mirror you with swollen throatmy voice thick with blood and screaming.a painting hung all wrong.
this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting: For weeks you bury your face in the clothes you wore when he was near and the smell is a comfort and a torture. You decide that the torture is not worth the comfort so you leave them draped across the back of a chair and place things on top of them to stop yourself until one day you shove your hands through the pile until your fingers wrap around the fabric and you yank it free only to realize it was pointless. Even his ghost is gone. The next thing that leaves is the way his voice looked in the dark. Those few sentences become blurred and rough around the edges. What you remember drops in your stomach in a different way. You run your fingers over your