you’re sober now

i haven’t seen you

since the summer.

i’ve seen the husk but not the whole.

you died in my front lawn,

straddled beneath your pickup truck,

vomit dribbling from your lips.

i’m so stupid you said.

what am i gonna do?

i didn’t answer.

i leaned you against my shoulder

but you kept slipping back into the dirt.

your skin smelled of grass.

your lips were limp.

you laid in that yard

like you’d have died

if you had the choice.

like you were already dead.

i tried not to wince when you put her on the phone,

she told me to take her off speaker and asked me

is he okay?

he’s just drunk i said

no, not that.

he said he was depressed.

and you looked at me

and you looked so pathetic.

i saw your bones without the skin,

stripped to your essence.

i saw that look in your eyes,

caught somewhere between both halves of regret.

the past or the present?

I wasn’t sure of which as saliva dripped from between your teeth.

he’ll be fine i said

i saw you then

and i buried you in the front seat

of the car of the girl that I told you

you couldn’t bring.

sometimes i think that was the last time i’ll ever see you,

sad and sorry,

too drunk to do anything

but stumble and spit.

you’re better at forgetting what you did to me

when you’re sober.

so i hope

you still


just a guy writing some sad poetry