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by ian

The boy, the man, I always haven’t met I kiss his shoulders with palms, holding tight to tan and breath and       hopes on the water. Baited on smirks, my neck tugs away to     him, swimming fast, biting, pulling down, I am not the catch. Off the water, not made for his car or his  music,  I flick my way through his grip. But even as his hands slip away, and his  face loses focus as the cracks catch up  with my detail eye,  my body is in my thoughts of his  words, his hands, his choice, and mine, and ginger liquor and a girlfriend,  boats, cars, Ships disappear bottom first, over the sunset I didn’t see. Behind the storm clouds, we doubt, we    learn, and this boy I didn’t know I knew, he saw me, saw perfect wrong, saw what    he wanted, knew what I wanted, and did  not jump I was in the quarry today. Bright, deep, clear water, listening to rocks crumble on the spring bed I almost saw. Diving into the wild blue yonder, I drowned with him, his hand left mine, and he was on the cliff, too high, alone, himself, and dry

a note from the artist--

This poem is about one day this summer, I was with my best friend and his cousin. We got very very drunk, had a long discussion, and I spent the next week thinking about it constantly. I found out that he had tried to kill himself before (so had I), and I just felt really connected to the situation. It’s like... a narrative car crash.

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