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I. The beginning

i.   we were standing by the docks, 
     your hand in my jeans pocket, 
     when you kick a pebble and 
      joke that you'd be late. 

ii.   late for what, i ask, 
      whipping around to face you,
      feeling my dark hair sting
      your metallic face like wasps.

iii.  my burial, you say,
      quietly as you withdraw 
      a hand from the back of my pocket 
      like it had never been there before. 

iv.   reschedule it, i say easily,        and somewhere my heart stains       because i do not care much for death,        or life or any of my mental illnesses. 
v.   i feel your cold shoulder by my arm, 
     a sign of my ignorance, 
     but there is hardly space for both of us
     in the sleeve of my shirt.

vi.  i could drop you off, i say, 
     referring to the burial in passing, 
     in the hope that you might simply 
     dismiss the ardent thought.  

vii. it was too much to expect, i suppose 
      because i feel you slip away, 
      into the shadows of the river,
      leaving me alone on…