tell me how to be good again and tell me how it feels when it isnt because i cannot know the world through my eyes. my eyes that hunger and maniacal hands that wash you aside.
i asked her how he died

did he swallow toxin to poison his life from the inside. did he explode his head to quiet the nagging nefarious voices. did he gas slit electrocute or fly from a window soaring in the city's polluted breath?
his windows were left waving, a record turning and pennies scattered the streets drenched in his blood.

they miss him. his mind and his smell. and his purity.
he was their light.
and so he plunged in crazed disorientation in search of himself.
i feel his doubt at the ledge
the quivering in his final notes
and his accounts closing

i feel the wind in my hair and the irreversible freedom.

the pennies rolled a block away.