5 Central Ave.

Found you in the bathroom at the
      house party, sky bruising over with new sun,
drunk, crying. When you came

          back downstairs, you didn’t speak. Up
the street, your old apartment, with
          rickety windows and no

insulation. Came to my conclusions,
          left you alone. Bought flowers
before you died, then after, sleeping

      in your bed to smell you, stuck in
remission, bending to the crowd. Their
      fangs shone as they called your name, beds

leaden with the timeless sin of the
          living. I’m a man on the moon in this city,
never not thinking of you, cemeteries

          muttering your name, me humming
along, learning the words. Yes, I’m
          learning to live again. The world is wide,

only my skin between us. Lying awake
          in the place where you died—it’s
brutal. It’s a gas. It’s morning.