An Uncomfortable Projection (High Flying Bird)
Of all the ways to imagine you
When empathy replaces recall,
This one aches most: gritty floor,
Empty syringe, scarlet blood,
And a head wound displayed
On cold stone, after the fact.
This vision of abstract death –
An overdose in shadow,
With a hint of sheen (that little cross) –
Is not something to summon with intent.
Yet, the likely consequence of known history
Disavows more comforting imagery.
Back then, I embraced the risk that we were,
Despite cautious words from alternate selves.
But back then, I thought myself your keeper;
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” is all I heard you say.
You would vanish by day, reappear at night,
Until finally, you moved away.
And now, the only sanguine image of you
Rests in disbelief of what I most fear is true.