i have a weird little heart,
he stands 3rd in the baseline of the drums at school,
his name is probably seth or someing dumb like that,
but god,
does he beat,
so out of control
they callled a weather alarm when he picked up those sticks
thinking of you

i have a great fear,
that i will be nothing more,
than the old pages your
mother reads,
wishing we'd be whole again
like holiday cards,
with the names punched out
and love signed in blood

"You have time."
Do I?
I drink myself into a stupor as
my Highschool classmate's plaster their doctorates,
marriages,
children,
across my feed,
like I wish to do to myself,
on those warm summer streets,
of Chicago