I love my cousin. And this is going to be revealing
for him—time and change, love and wires, death and beauty.
We’ve come to adore a woman, sharing her arms, charmed
to have died, amazed to have lived.
I remember him as a lad, we’d chase schemes, it was
terrible when she appeared. Why was she there, a truer riddle, something
culminating, something gray?
He could never tell a dream, or sell a vampire, eating
lobster, sipping wine.
So beige. They all knew. The deaths in me sustained us
for a time. Running as we do. Automatic pilot as we do. The fierce the violent,
the humble and meek. He was a pillar
of visions, the root of admiration, the pain we ingest.
Convo was live, alert, cautious, striking.
To die with penalty. To have come to a space. (So
delicate, precarious, something with time to solidify it.)
I love my cousin. And this is going to be revealing
for him—time and change, love and wires, death and beauty.
Even looking at her, while manic, I wondered where he
was: the game, the tires rolling, the slight imperfection, and why? – why me?
Nothing gave way. Days are filled with this tale,
never his deeds.
