Last time I saw you, we were trapped in a photo booth on planet Mars. I traced the anatomy of your knife sheath, your kydex holsters. Although we were unlicensed, we reconstructed pathways, painting pergolas along the way.
You took me in—a catastrophic storm response. Risked my “as is” condition; treated me delicately, like a document drying. My new landscaper, traversing the labyrinth of my cross-country embroidery.
Like a jade star, with your yarn and your sage, you deconstructed my demolition like it never happened.
Gosh, Josh. I now stand at your wake, staring at your long, dark lashes—lain curtains on your placid face. The string quartet transcends, at blades with my rotten ginger heart; this muscle that keeps pounding.