I don't know what I am saying these days,
but I loved you from a boy to an autumn man,
tearing moons, playing the saw and dying in awe.
statements made and mended,
haven't heard your hurting voice in a while,
so now I am scared by despicable disposable cameras, overexposed.
who will I be when the back porch eats me?
grass dog and dry-erase board,
plus decisions that eat away at souls.
tired and drunk or drunk and tired,
shaking homes of dead friends,
wishing flowers would see me like I see them.
Abigail, I hope you choke on our 15 years,
because I gag on each day gone each dinner,
and yet no one knows from here to Wyoming.