of your eyes, begonia skies

You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to

pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,

but
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that 

money is more fruitful than words, and

I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.

i’ll walk you to the hospital,

I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from
the MRI scan that tries to 

locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and

I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks

and assure you that you’ll find your place,

it’s just 

the world has a funny way of

hiding spots fertile enough for

bodies like yours to grow roots.

and

I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,

or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I

wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday

and I would have wanted you to 

give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,

to see if you still had it in you.

I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive. 

If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that

the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea

less devastating.”

Small, Lucas Regazzi 

I miss you I miss you I miss you