You.
You were
always
the one

that my
thoughts
have wandered
back to.

But distance
and time
have taken
their toll.

Hearts heavy
like depleted
uranium
and

livers fucked
from years
of friendship
with a bottle.

That’s just
the way
we used to
live.

Now these
corrupted lungs
ache to speak
your name

and this soul,
whiskey-poisoned
and sick with
nostalgia

is just the
sorry half
of a better
whole.

Happiness is the smell of good coffee when you walk into a room.

I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter.

Yeah, so
I’ve
read
Kerouac

and
wanderlust
runs through
these veins.

Yeah, I feel like
a wayward,
wandering,
rambling soul.

and my feet
ache to tread
unfamiliar
ground.

But I’ve never
thought of
myself
as a drifter

because your
kiss has
always felt
like home.

She is the
kind of girl
a man has to
think twice about

before falling in 
love with.

Because
he knows,
once he does,
he always will.

I loved you.
I think I
always
have.

But time
does funny
things to
a man

and summer
has never
been kind
to me.

The brush
of our skin,
the smoke
on your breath,

the creases
that mark
a face framed
by brown locks,

the lines of
your palm
I always said
I’d memorize

like roads
on a map,
unpaved
ones

that I hoped
would always
lead me back
to you.

But time
does funny
things.

I can hardly
remember
any of it.

I think
I loved you.
But time has proven
that I never will.

Last Will and Testament

When I die,
please don’t write
on my Facebook
page.

Don’t plaster my picture
on every wall,
don’t get my name
tattooed on your arm

next to that ink
of a dolphin or an anchor
or some poorly-translated
phrase in Kanji.

And please, for the love of God,
don’t ever fucking say
“Namaste” in reference to me.
(Also, learn Sanskrit).

I just want to be remembered,
somewhat fondly,
in quiet conversations
over good coffee.

Maybe a sad poem
or a short story
dedicated to my memory,
for whatever it’s been worth.

Maybe a song about me.
A classly one though,
poignant and important,
written in a minor key.

But mostly, I just want people
to look at my life,
and use it as an inspiration
to be better in theirs.

It’s sad, tragic,
whatever other
synonym
for sorrow.

Yet almost funny
in a way:
how tightly we cling
to the ones we lose.

Funny only because
I always thought
that we should let
the dead rest in peace.

But no, we take pictures,
we write words
(sometimes insincerely),
we ink our skin

in some ploy, some
inexplicable plan
to get someone to
live forever.

These days, it seems,
when we die we trade
our consciousness
for immortality.

But human lives aren’t,
at least they shouldn’t be,
a currency to be traded
amongst the heartbroken.

But we’ve always done this,
haven’t we? Since forever.
Dug graves, painted pictures,
placed tombstones.

I suppose nostalgia,
or perhaps guilt, is an 
emotion that we can’t escape.
The feeling that, whatever we
could have done, we didn’t.

But who am I to say
what the proper way to grieve is?
I’ve lost people as well
and I still haven’t
quite figured out how to.