All you want is vodka

and my rotting body

under the summer sun.

A taste for remembrance,

a list of things

we do but never

get done.

I pull on your hands

like I’m dying,

find God in the dark

of your mouth.

We both have a talk

with Him quietly,

but neither recall

what about.

You wonder if heaven

was really bleeding,

or just a sick kind of blue.

I wonder if we’ll ever want

like Eve did first, painful and

true.

We stay in the house for days,

rain pouring down like mercy.

I tell you stupidness pays,

and you try to kill me.

The sun doesn’t go away

when it rains,

which means just because

you’re feeling good

doesn’t mean you’re not feeling pain.

And trust me,

things will never be

the same.