We spent half a day wondering why people shout Geronimo
when they jump off a building to avoid jumping off one ourselves.
I’ll never be the doctor that suggests therapy over poetry
as a coping mechanism, or the person who gets
their ex’s name tattooed onto their thigh so their new lover
will see it every time they go to bed together.
See, I took the snowflakes from last year’s snowfall and braided
them into a noose so at least you’d have a pretty way to die,
better than drowning in a hotel swimming pool
during an electric storm or opening your veins
with a boxcutter. The other day you left me a voicemail
on my answering machine asking why silence
can’t have sex with noise, and I left you one back
responding that they were polar opposites, and maybe
that’s why the condom always broke
when we tried to sleep together.
I still write poems about you whenever I ride the subway,
but then again, I probably always will.