We used to dance in the rain. Not together, unless we agree that I’m right that time is just stupid to think about given recent events, and if we’re agreeing with you, that time ended given recent events, then I’d say instead that we died together.

Maybe you’d look at me and say, “that’s not what i meant”, and I wish you would. I would drink your anger like my last final meal (not the cup of coffee I had on the nineteenth [two yrs ago. it’s been a while]). And then… dunno. I’d turn it back into despair for you, because you forget that you hold it deeply too.

I like to think that as you bled out, you did not forget anything. I like to think that you remember [-ed] as well as I do [strikethrough “o”, -id, You’re dead and he’s in denial], and I really do love to linger on the fact that you did not cry. I love to linger on it like you loved to kill: hate & love. You didn’t cry because you skipped depression (and therefore bargaining) and accepted for too short of a time (would’ve been longer if, well, you know). You didn’t cry because you skipped depression (and therefore bargaining) and accepted as you raged, you didn’t cry because you skipped depression (and therefore bargaining) and wept through your blade instead (not by bleeding— by violence). You didn’t cry because you skipped depression— and there I go. Loving to linger.

However: you didn’t cry because you didn’t know how. I wish I had sat you down and demonstrated for you. I wish I had taken my glasses off and let them drop to the floor; fuck it if they break. I wish we sat under the café lights so that you could watch them (glasses & tears) fall, and then I would’ve pointed at them and smiled or pseudo-frowned, and I would’ve said, “this is how you do it,” and if you couldn’t copy my crying then I would’ve flicked my tears onto my fingertips and then lined the corners of your eyes with them:

“Blink,” I say, and though you are confused and frazzled you blink. My tears fall from your eyes.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I say, and I’m not crying anymore but your nod makes me want to.

I don’t know what your voice sounds like anymore. I never knew what you smelt like. These base senses, perhaps a bit feral (we’re both here, together with our claws; pointed at each other), are the ones I know you would prefer me to have. You don’t cry because you don’t believe you are tamed. You didn’t cry because you died still wild.

I don’t know what your voice sounds like anymore. Maybe… [ellipses show hesitation: you’re tamed] maybe if I should’ve taught you how to cry, you should’ve taught me how to stop before you were gone for good. You should’ve taught me how to snarl my grief into my teeth. You should’ve taught me everything you knew so that I could be you after you left.

[grief is obsessive. it festers. he’s festering again. but You’re on the other side, pretending for him. the issue: there is no conclusion, and You know not what for him.]