So I've been thinking about

our last conversation,

before your body molded into the hospital bed

like old clay

and the ventilator became your lungs.

It was a nothing of words -- something something

the future of technology in archeology

politely offered to an ex-boyfriend of mine

who I can't think of now without 

a knife between my ribs.

​

But before that, back when we talked

only in dark humor about 

It,

I sat on the doorstep of your hotel room

drunk in the hot steamy night

age sixteen,

and cried. [I don't remember what I said

to you

or what you said to me]. 

Did I say “I’m afraid of you dying”?

Two years later, and I wouldn't be able to

tell you anything. 

 

We did talk, once twice

during those last slow walks around the block

when your body began to fail you,

and you told me about being a grad student 

typing out your dissertation 

with the demons of anxiety and depression

the same, the very same, anxiety and depression

that kept me up at night

haunted by monsters in the backyard.

 

So I've been thinking about our last conversation.

And I can't remember the last thing I said. 

I hope it was

"I love you."

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