I want to live long enough to laugh at what little I remember of your life.
You disregard all forms of pain, respond in a nearly undetectable frequency. The sound of your exhaust, the exhaled result of denial vibrates, a dry cold, then heavy, shallow, but always labored, self-controlled.
I hear it all. That resonance lives in us when we live together. And that’s it. That is all. Death becomes our coupling when we stay in Watertown.
When my body is rot, not a single molecule of what used to be you will be there. So drown. Go on. I want to watch. I’ll most likely scream. I will most definitely forget. But one day I will laugh. It will come without warning, breaking through the vacuum you left me in.
A thought will float into my chosen consciousness, a vision of a bloated, expressionless fuck like you drifting down Cassius Creek, through the center of town, gaseous and pale.
I still don’t find you funny, but I’m learning to embrace the subtlety of your comedy.