sand has settled in his cheekbones, speckled
his face, a fractured mirror surrounded by
the memory of youth. Hot summer sidewalks.
Skinned knees. Ice cream cones. Sticky rock candy
now transformed to whiskey and cocaine.
Everything burns him like guitar strings
snapping against calloused fingers, iron
lowered into the flames of premature age.
Pretty lies dusting his murky charisma,
cigarette smoke and ashes curl and veer
through his dripping hair and down my back,
sparking on my spine, ripping me up.
Everything is numb and everything kills
him, but nothing can put him in the soil
faster than the bass line tearing him apart,
screaming his name until the world is dead,
torn open by the drugs that kill him.