you are art

every memory starts like this: you and me on the couch in your apartment. palm to palm in the tv light until we aren’t anymore. laughing together until my tongue remembers its anger and cuts ribbons in all the curtains, breaks all the windows, leaves gaps between us too large to fill. when you died, no one saw the sun for two weeks. i wrote my first suicide note or maybe it was just another shitty letter to god. either way, nobody answered. either way, i kept burning. but i’m tired of metaphors about light. i’m tired of choking out your name and calling it an apology. the memory is only thunder. your name is only a dent in the cushion. my letter is shoved back through the mail slot. i guess it was too heavy. i guess god doesn’t want to hold that kind of thing.