We took to lying on our backs in bed,
arms criss-crossed over our chests,
corpse-like,
and our breathing was cold.
I was always pale and tired
and you were always sad.
You would disappear at night
into King’s Cross St Pancras;
the twenty-four hour Starbucks there
held more allure than grief,
though sometimes I forgot that.
Other nights
you’d be drawn to the pier
hanging over the Thames.
I suppose suicide settles easier
when your choices run before you,
but you never were one for drowning
beside those dull columns
of steel and muted light.
I would imagine you walled in by your pain
with writing pads and paper cups,
chasing down the feel of your tears
with caffeine
(I chased them down, too,
with whiskey,
vodka,
rum,
and some weeping of my own,
though I rarely cried for anything).
Melancholia was measured in months
and how we liked to tug it out;
those threads snapping
like our skulls
on the walls,
the doors,
the table:
so brokenly mournful.
(We never could get rid of that violence.)
I grieved for you and me
and all those lives we never had,
as though life only offers itself once and can’t bear
rejection.
We’re older now
and we’ve moved on a little,
but I still change my clothes
seven times a day
like changing souls could ever be that easy.
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Submission Name: Welcome to the Funny Farm
