Wrong

Is how still the air is, standing

Is how grey the sky is, weeping

Is how red the fallen leaf is, dying

Is how green the grass is, living

Living, living, living

A breath in, a breath out

Taken for granted—granted, it’s

A subconscious process. But why is it

That after watching one’s subconscious fade

The automatic takes effort?

In their smiles, too wide, too full of too-white teeth

Bleach doesn’t lie, isn’t good, you can’t hide

Your bones by soaking them in it

bones

no, no, no—please

i said no bones and you,

you promised me

promised me

when we cut our skin

to the white calcium beneath

engraved our initials in

the smooth surface

waited for the skin to entomb

them once again, saying

as long as the bones remained

within ourselves, we would

always know where the other was

our own private witchcraft

our own private witchcraft now strewn across the street, and

i can see your bones, my initials, out in the open air, and

it pains me it pains me its pains me—but not so much as

knowing that i do not know where you are anymore.

you have left me, and left me with so many questions:

were you scared? did you know you would be gone?

an empty space where a body, a laugh, a smile should be?

why did you go? that last one: why why why?

please tell me:

where are you?