that year i learned how to let words circle in my being and let them out through my fingertips. i learned quickly the colors of bruises as they healed. he cut his bangs with rusted scissors and chased his drinks with cocaine sugar and only spoke to me for a kiss or a cigarette. i'm sorry but i shouldn't be sorry. i remember the soil brown and dirty white striped shirt and those ratted black jeans you swore you would never wear afterward. your heightened voice echoed all over them, and probably some tears and splinters of shards from your dead brothers lamp.

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