Still

All I’ve got left in this empty house

is lukewarm Grey Goose—

and small talk—that prattles about

in my brain—for hours

—everything I said,

everything I did,

—a rapid fire

of crossed wires and neurons.

My brain’s a wormhole of its own conception

I feel numb. But I was the one—

who looked back.

I don’t care.

Anymore.

I can still hear the flame

brazened body language—

translated into verbs and nouns, now—

as I brood and smoke what’s left

and forgotten, too—

of your cheap menthols.

My spine resembled hers, you said

and it disgusted you. We lay there all night, breathing slow breaths of fire

to opposite sides of the room.

Silent.

I don’t care.

Anymore.

Maybe it’s staring craters into fine lines

—as the firing squad descends

and a smile as the first shot rings out—

death’s last call.

Finally.

—Because, what’s anything, if memories are, and will only ever be—

lost projections, set on a timer.

I don’t care.

Anymore.

I’m a derelict kite lost in the flutter,

just restlessly—in search

of some unknown hand

to grab me.

I don’t care,

anymore. But,

I think what burns

halos into my corneas as I refuse to unshut,

is that just maybe:

I do care.

Too much, intense. Too—

real. Too obviously caring.

Still as I sit,

abridged.