TPK

We built worlds
like elite DMs,
built lives
and diversions
and adventures,
and stuck a purple dildo
in the butt crack of
rationality
and fucked the hell out of the
space-time continuum

but we never found
the spell
to give
life back
to these ragged
bones of us

My ghost wafts aimless
in the graveyard,
and looks fondly
at the corpse
of a love
I thought
had a zillion
hit points

but went down
with a few
misplaced
goodbyes

and your phantom
offers a hand to mine
for long enough to
make eye-contact
flashbacks

(baby… yes…)


A whisper of before
slides softly over
my vacant face,
like a gauze sheet
of who we used to be

(fuck, right there)

I take your hand
among the tombstones
to dance again
in faded moonlight

(god, please… now)

and we argue
about tacos
and who was
right,
who was wrong

because it’s all that’s left

it’s all that’s left
of all those worlds

(asleep on your chest
Star Wars again
beard-burn on my ass
your voice
your face
your love
all… )

so we roll the dice,
read the script,
and move forward
with our
campaign
amnesia

where I pretend to live
through another session

and I do.

I do.

but baby,
when it’s cold
I wish I wasn’t
pressed against
the faint outline

of
a stranger

who knows
everything
about me

I wish
I remembered
how it felt
to drowse
under that damn
blanket you
wear like a toga,
pressed against
the strong
outline

of you