Mainly, I was angry,
Five weeks I’d known you, yet …
Did you really care so much, or was it for effect?
A try for my attention. And it failed and failed,
Too influenced by Curtis and Cobain,
White circles, scattered in your hand,
Their power just threat.
And so I ran, first time I ran?
And now, rotund and middle aged,
Cricket and slippers, farmers market fruit,
A life in rural France,
What idyll might you have missed?
What more resolve?
One more week?
One more month?
How long would it have taken before you really …
Would you ever?
Never, I know, not like this.
And this was such a suicide,
He’s gone, like you never,
And must I go on?
Seventeen white pills, count them,
One for each year and one we never,
The choice he made hangs bitter,
In my mouth, like those sweet pills.
And I watch my own seventeen,
In your small French idyll,
Wonder what revenge on who,
And when and why and if …
A note would lay the trail
Of blame, but what’s the point?
A small revenge,
And you’re not him.
I want to scream,
But in this room,
I would be heard,
And not by you (nor him).
I grip the wooden frame.
Anger defrays and dissipates until,
I take the traitorous seventeen,
Not to my mouth but to another gaping yaw.
I throw each pill,
I cannot find the will to run,
As down below the franco-drone.
I don’t matter here.
Joy divided, fractures.
Watch each pill dissolve,
Into new void.