Forget what they told you:
February has the fiercest ingenuity.
April’s where the dead go to blossom,
Where exposure finally took Him.
All my life has been in a room
Full of concave mirrors
Bouncing the voices back and forth,
Some louder than others,
All returning for another haunt,
And my gaze, as it ages,
Stares back and remembers:
In my room I watch the hours tick by,
I think of you and her and him and then.
It all bounces off the walls and into my eyes,
My ears, into my blood, and through my bones.
These relentless reverberations come and go,
Return at the batting of your eyes,
And flee at the sound of the phone,
And the constant, fleeting versions of myself
Cannot compete with their lingering side effects.
I lay awake till dawn on most nights
Reliving all those joys and terrors.
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