i do not want to know what your hands did,

tremblingly steady,

doubtfully certain.

i do not want to hear what You left behind,

your windchime parents’ anesthesia-silence,

your white static baby brother’s measured exhales,

your skipping record girlfriend’s half-broken sobs–

 

i want them to be able to

ask what You want for dinner,

show You a drawing,

tell You a joke,

see You there.

i want You here–

suffering-brilliant-funny-tortured-lovely-broken-lovely boy,

i want You here–

i want You here for

college move-in day to stub your toe on the door, to curse hard, to laugh harder,

weddings that aren’t yours to gulp when your girlfriend catches the bouquet, to eat

dry cake, to blush when she says yours will taste better,

a wedding that is yours to have a breakdown, to say “I do,” to groan at your best

man’s rambling, to stripe frosting across your wife’s face,

the birthday of two little girls whose names You always knew to rock them to sleep, to

read them stories, to be there for them.

 

i want us to be immortals,

scorching our stories into the earth,

laughing at the thought of death,

glittering when the sun hits us.
 

i want You–

 

your name exploding across the wall of an abandoned-factory-temple,

your in memoriam page a sacrifice in the yearbook,

your soul in the stars where You always-always-always wanted to be–

 

i want to go back to before–

when our biggest concern was recess,

when You still had your glasses,

when i didn’t talk to You,

when i should’ve talked to You,

when i had no idea,

when no one had any idea,

when your brain hadn’t turned inside out and your skin didn’t feel wrong and You didn’t

eye freeways or outlets or knives or high places–  

 

i want You

to have wanted all of this too,

to have told someone, anyone, even if they couldn’t have stopped you.

i want

to reach beyond the stars,

to shake You awake,

to tether You back down to all You left behind.