i slept on your floor in the autumn of your home
in dim light we mourned the death of your year
shadows of trees against the walls like skeletal hands
you were wearing a party dress but you looked ready for a funeral
you hosted a seance for the ghost of your happiness
you invited the whole town to come dance but our legs were tired from trying to keep up with you
we slept in spare beds on the floor in cupboards and we dreamed of change as you nightmared in the same space
the brick walls so redundant the smoke climbed the lines the jester performed his manic depressive juggling act the smoke billowed the balloons on the floor looked sad making love to the dust your legs were white as winter
i was not here for any of this i was just the eyes of the painting that you painted of yourself
i was the broken streamers swaying from the ceiling like a hanged man
i was the last hope never wanted to be but there i was the angel of death come to swing the sword

i never wanted to be
and you want to be so badly always


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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