We grow tired of watching the incessant acts of the moon —

she is a thespian bargaining for attention so we swear to her

like we don’t have anything to promise each other. Fifty meters away,

a song takes its dying breath because novelties fade and

truth has accepted the offer to be a contortionist. They say

I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. They don’t know what they’re talking about

because your love letters pin my eyelids to my brows; there is

no such thing as waking when solace confesses to drug possession.

Tell me, were all those kisses just psychedelic images of the idea

we long ago planted in Persephone’s garden? Is springtime going

to bring a curse that will finally render us non-existent? Because

the smoke hits my nose with a vengeance and the mirror breaks

before forming constellations named after all the places we’ve been.

I read your name in print and suffocate myself with the consolation

that I can still read you. Consolations are the worst thing you can

hand out as gifts, have I ever told you that? They claw at the wrapper

until paper eventually surrenders to spirit and cling to every wall

they deem bare. It’s unfortunate that I already tore down

all your sketches and photographs. They would have sufficed,

they would have sufficed. But now I save my ‘sorry’s for the rainy days

and shove them inside the freezer for preservation even though

it’s perfectly clear they won’t survive the cold. It’s okay.

I won’t, either. Your jacket remains hung inside my room and it still

smells of second place. The moon turns crescent to mock me

before disappearing without a curtsy — she’s done with her scene.

The applause is deafening. I’m done fabricating you from my memory.