Jason: a poem

I see you there. Your dead heart, icy fingertips. The
Diamond days, chained together like the cut marks on your arms.

Like ivy and a tree, we must have suffocated one another.

I picture your comic books, sometimes, covered in drugs and blood. Your
Lips pursed and your heart taped off like a crime scene. I see
Your vending machine emotions. I smell the rust around your eyes.

I see you there, calling from bus rides to Bell Square in your after-therapy voice.
“Ich Warter hier. Stirb nicht vor mir.”

I see you there, falling from the rooftop when the wind picked up.
Moments later,
we
Are trying to resuscitate you, calling 911. I see you there,
barely alive and finally smiling.

This compulsion you had not to be alive
It didn’t matter I asked you to stay for me
Most important was you needed to believe you had a purpose

I smell the rust around your heart. The sound of your bones being reset… the
Hospital magazines were the same as the last time.