Your mom sent me this photo
the day that you moved across
the street from your old
house, the one with you in
your boots with the worn
soles and the sleeves
of your denim over shirt cuffed
because they’re stretched from living
in your grasp too long. I smirked
when I saw your shadow against
the bare white wall, sprawled
against it, leaning with your hand placed
on the white windowsill just above
your head, your eyes closed,
the line that goes from your nose
to your chin, your smile exposed.
You were 17, your band's 3 track demo
had just been released,
the one you burned into the night with crumpled
papers and messages from bandmates.
Nights with a furrowed brow,
pencil to lip,
tap, tap, taste metal,
teeth dent yellow gloss
paint crunch, eraser shavings thud
to the floor, at least
that's what it sounded like to you,
after all, everything is louder when...
They say the best writers can't hold
their liquor.
My Isabella, I'm sorry.
Sorry I never asked during the two months
when it was my responsibility to.
Sorry I never took a minute to rack
your brain about your favorite coffee
shop in Jefferson Park
or how your soul stirred
as you plucked the strings
of the guitar that helped you win
the dingy coffee shop open mic
even when we sat around
the fireplace singing in harmony
at 10:32 pm on the Fourth of July.
I never asked
what makes your brain ache,
brow furrow, eyes water, and why
you make your liver hurt
with Red Solo cups poured
into empty root beer cans.
I would have told you chronic is OK,
take tylenol in the morning. Sat with you
under the window covered
by a black curtain
with translucent leaves that turn solid
once 2 am comes and
you sleep. Your breathing:
automatic, slow, peaceful.
