POETIC JUSTICE

the first time we spoke I asked you to 

write me something beautiful.

do you remember that?

and you did, you did,

and it was so beautiful that it

brought tears to my eyes. And I 

went home and laid down and I cried,

you didn’t know that. Now, I hope, 

now maybe you do.

I probably took that for granted

and I'm sorry.

I was far away from you that night.

Too far. 

Opposite ends

of a stupid floating piece of land.

But I could still talk to you 

when I needed to,

because we have phones and emails 

and letters and

dumb shit like that.

Maybe I didn’t text you enough times, if I had,

maybe you’d still be here,

you know?

Maybe I could've stopped you

Maybe if I'd called you and

you had told me about the storm

I would've been able to tell you

to stay put and wait

until it passed. 

I’m sorry if I sound angry.

You know how in books and 

movies the bad

phone calls always come at night,

like, right in the middle of the night,

like, at three a.m.?

I thought that was just one of those

things that only happens in books and

movies, but it doesn’t. You must

know that now. 

You must know everything now,

wherever you are, 

maybe you know all the truths

that us stupid idiots back here

know nothing of. 

Three a.m. and I got a phone call

that split all the seams open. 

Everything just

collapsed.

Eighty five miles an hour on

an exit ramp, they said.

You lost control, they said,

and then I did too.

I'm sorry, somebody said. 

It sounded disconnected,

as if it wasn't actually 

coming from the

phone, as if somebody 

were actually

with me in my dark room, 

talking to me. I wanted it to be 

your voice so badly that 

for a while I believed it was. 

But it was me, I realized that. 

As soon as you were gone I 

started going crazy,

talking to myself. 

You know what's weird is that I didn't 

cry immediately that night.

I went to the bathroom 

and turned on the tub faucet and the 

sink faucet and I just 

tried to process it,

process the fact that I'd 

never see you smile again 

or hear you laugh or anything

like that.

"I'm not here.

This isn't happening."

Sweetheart, why were you driving so fast?

Sweetheart, why the hell did you do that?

If I had been there

I’d have told you to slow down,

not drive like a fucking idiot in the rain.

Why were you driving so fast?

Why were you driving so fucking fast?

Three a.m. and I haven’t gone back to

sleep since.

I can’t fall asleep. I find myself crying

at least five times a day now,

choking sobs that rack your entire

body. It’s hard for me to get in a car

because I just remember you sitting

in the passenger seat when you were here

and you’d drive with me 

and you were safe.

But now you've disappeared 

completely and I'm holding

one of your tee shirts in my

hands and it doesn't smell 

like you anymore but 

I feel like I can still 

touch you if I try hard enough,

like you're somehow 

trapped in the cotton fibers

and that this will somehow

make it better. 

At your funeral I said 

a few words. It’s not like

they meant anything. 

You couldn't hear me.

The casket was closed. They said 

it was because you were

thrown from your car. That’s all they told

me, but I overheard somebody whispering

about how your

skull was basically smashed to pieces.

I still think you’re beautiful.

Even with glass embedded in your skin,

blood drenching your pretty clothes,

I still think you’re beautiful.

But I feel bad. I should’ve

written you a eulogy

I should’ve eulogized you 

because all the white flowers

and all the weeping people in black 

didn't 

do you any of the poetic justice

you deserved,

but I just couldn’t find the words,

I can’t find the words 

without you here.

I can’t find any words anymore,

when people ask me how I’m doing 

or if I need

anything, I just smile and it feels wan

and I think I’m becoming a ghost.

Did you become a ghost?

Or did you go somewhere

beautiful? Tell me, please. 

I can't bear to think

that there are secrets between us

now, I want to know about 

this beautiful place you must be in.

I hope you're not sad,

wherever you are 

and I hope it's warm and 

pretty and you can smell flowers still. 

But come back, please, touch me

with your cold hands.

I know you were pretty mad

before you died. I had been distant,

literally, figuratively. I was busy, 

I wasn’t lying

but if I had known,

god, if I had known

shit, if I had only fucking known,

I would’ve dropped everything and

held you one last time, 

I wouldn’t let

you touch that steering wheel,

do anything stupid,

I'd take you in my arms and never

let go, tie you down 

to the bed if I had to just to 

keep you safe,

kiss you and hug you and tell

you I'd never let you get hurt,

that it'd be better this way,

trust me, I'd say,

I've seen the alternative.

I’d take you in my arms, 

darling, I’d

keep you close and warm in bed with me,

I wouldn’t let you go anywhere, 

you couldn’t

go anywhere.

You’re a fucking bitch 

for dying on me.

I’m trying to be angry so 

that it hurts less but it’s

taking a lot of work and 

I’m exhausted and like I said,

sleep brings no solace.

All I can think about is the 

last time I kissed you,

I keep going back 

to that moment,

I don’t remember where we

were but I think it was 

either your room or mine and

it was a while ago and it was brief but 

you loved me

and I loved you and 

I could taste it on your tongue.

Fuck you.

There’s nobody left for me to talk to.

So I’m coming to meet you, 

I’m coming to meet you

because the world is so fucking 

boring when

you don’t exist in it and

I tried to visit your grave but they

haven't been taking care of the grass

and apparently there's a famous poet

buried in the same cemetery 

and I thought about how unfair 

that is because you're probably in heaven

talking to him right now 

and he's probably writing you all these 

nice poems and you must be so happy

and all I have is a stone,

just a stone with some words written 

on it and it can’t speak to me

and tell me everything that 

I need to hear and

maybe it’s selfish but 

I’m coming to meet you,

I’m coming to meet you,

right now,

so please, please

let me-- 

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

Frozen construction ponds.

That’s where I first learned 

the meaning of “adventure”.

Where I’ve grown up 

there’s no cinematic cliff

overlooking the city, 

no scenic ocean pier.

We’d walk on those ponds

and pretend

we were ice skating.

And that brown ice somehow held,
and it cradled our youthful dreams,

built up like the mossy lean-tos

that we would construct 

in the woods 

behind our houses.

Simplicity tainted everything back then.

Do you remember?

Nothing could touch us,

or so we rightfully believed.

Early on I was

plagued only by things like

pre-algebra or provincial facebook posts.

Existing in an age

where screens have the ability to

stain fingertips;

everything is a few clicks away 

which is both

scary and comforting.

Years pass and the concern is no longer

summer swim team relays or
dystopian novels.

The plots of Harry Potter
books are brought up

mostly in reminiscent conversations;

cartoons are a circumstantial pass time

and no longer a Saturday morning event.  

There’s always something new:  

a different band,

a different haircut,

different friends.

Evolution is the norm.

There's this pressure to pick 

the best version of yourself

in the midst of a 

whirlwind of hormones and 

shaky hands and first concerts.

Firsts, there are plenty.

First kisses and first fights and

first times and first failures.

Some firsts
I couldn't help but wonder,
vaguely,
if I was still too young. 

I’ve struggled with everything,

from my the width of my thighs to

my subpar geometry grades.

What boys thought of me,

what my friends thought of me.

Growing pains came in the form of

scars concealed by a

friend’s ill-fitting sweatshirt sleeves;

the first time I had to hold

somebody while they fell apart.

Some nights I vividly remember

crying myself to sleep over

some triviality or another.

Tear stained pillows are a rite of passage,

I suppose.

The bulletin board in my room has seen

every change in the timeline,

every shift, every tilt.

A tangible representation of a

very

good life.

My bookshelf filled up, so did my walls.

And so did my heart, when I opened myself up

to people and things

I’d been afraid to let in.

I added, subtracted,

multiplied.

I found out my favorite foods

and favorite movies,

who I wanted to keep around,

and what it felt like to drive a car

alone

for the first time.

Good music fell into my hands

like a precious gem.

I found songs that

fit me like a glove,

I wielded them, my tiny secret weapons.

And it all happened so fast.

I'm trying to catch my breath.  

I have regrets because

I feel like they’re healthy—

the beers we shared on the beach because

we thought it would be cool,

the times I erupted, yelled too loudly,

the times I let people hurt me,

did too much for those who barely did

anything for me.

I'll learn from these things,

I swear.

I’m not impenetrable.

I am young

and for a tough kid,

my unshakable sentiment

contradicts me.

I am small and I accept that.

I have my daily doubts.

What if one of us dies before 

I get to hold your hand again?

Before we get to watch another movie 

on your too big couch

and gorge ourselves on Chinese food?

Before we get to drive 

with the windows down to nowhere

on a sun-drunken summer evening?

Loss is the axiom of growing up.

What you lose depends on you
and you alone.

It manifests somewhere between
your seventh birthday

and the time you’re twenty-two
and throwing your last

graduation cap into the air.

Because when you're seventeen
you're waiting for eighteen
and then you're twenty and
waiting for twenty-one
and then you're waiting
for something else
that you haven't even
put a name to yet. 

Suddenly that half-life of
half-hearted attempts 

at a full-fledged future

are not for naught.

The times when you used to
hide from thunderstorms

under the kitchen table

seem very far away

and yet.

There are more storms to come.

I know that. 

I’m still afraid,

and rightfully so.

For now I am here

and trying to be cool about it.

The people that are leaving,

the people that have already left

without either of us realizing it,

they all meant something to me.

Some days, I’ll admit,

I want to hurt somebody

because the distance seems to hurt

only me.

I’m trying to save

the best parts of myself

for a time when I feel more sure.

I’d rather you all be happy
and far away

than up close and miserable.

Me, I’ll spend one more thunderstorm

hiding under the kitchen table.

One more Saturday morning,

safe and lazy and in bed.

One more sunset

in the Cook-Out parking lot.

And then I’ll be ready.  

I’ve seen heaven once.

In a daydream or a piece of literature

or my lover’s eyes—I’m not sure.

But it was beautiful.

And it was quiet, but it was never lonely.

You could hear only the tomorrows

of a patient past-life

floating on candy-colored breezes,

whispered from hushed lips.

It was quiet.

It was never lonely.

One day I hope I’ll be found there.

When all is said and done.

When my own personal

“THE END” comes with

the most beautiful sky

anyone has ever seen.

In a place where mortal truths

are locked in people’s glass hearts

and preserved

forever.