your death really did bother me, honestly it did,
even if it was only imagined in my head,
i savored it, lusted after the idea,
and began to imagine it in chapters, like an author or a poet,
as if it were the grand finale we always talked about writing,
but never did,
it's our own sentimental masterpiece.

there was no mistake made, when you chose to go,
you went:
like an insect fatefully squashed against my wind shield,
you went,
and it was only a matter of time before i reached for the wipers,
leaving you to question why you even bothered...
how your wings ever failed...
why i never thought to hit the brakes,
why i never gave you another second chance...

just relax, sit tight while i have my way,
with words,
at least.

keep in mind, dead version of proper noun which i once had affection for,
remember that i like to think of you as a personified synonym for loathing,
keep in mind, that in my memories your face is distorted like a ransom note,
remember my lovie, my allusions are deep with reference to your deeply delusional mind,
and my metaphors are never in error.

yes, i'm making imaginary love to the idea
conjuring dreary, sappy, mental montages of you eternally dreaming of me:
tasting you,
fucking you,
wanting you,
and with less than twelve hours to go before the fun-eral
(see also: real fun)
i should be thinking about what i'm going to wear.

i'll try and pick a shirt which you left your scent on.
memories.
preserved.
you in your coffin
and me in less admirable containers.

i should be thinking about how i am going to react
with my body language and my eyes,
when caught off guard by your family's pretentious acts of sorrow,
i'll just keep mental notes,
acting is merely reacting,
acting is merely reacting,
proof is in the pudding, happy thoughts,
and in that sensitive, generous voice you whispered "i love you"
like a death threat...

in this imaginary funeral parlor, the imaginary mints and butterscotch candies
are just as good as i'd imagine.
and the hymnals are purely virginal; we all know the words to "amazing grace,"
and surprisingly the imaginary kleenex are slightly softer than you'd think;
easy on the nostrils,
and in my imaginary version of dead you and solitary me, your coffin
is lined in linen
lined with silver,
in hopes that you'd recall how metaphors made me happy.

and the imaginary priest who delivers your eulogy,
he's cut from the finest holy and epistolic d.n.a.,
he's angelic,
he's prophetic,
and i'm giving him imaginary first dibs...

i'm perverted like that.

i'm just being honest.

01/20/2006

Author's Note: Written with Frankie Sanchez.

Posted on 01/20/2006
Copyright © 2010 Nicole Hyde