Maybe I should just write poetry, I think.
As if saying more with less is easy
and words can make sense of
the ache still clinging to my chest.

Like we can sculpt emotions
out of a dictionary,
lay it out in front of us and say,
“Oh yes, now I see.”

It was like any other summer night
when we sat on the steps of my parents’ house.
Smoking Marlboro cigarettes and
drinking bourbon. No ice.

I didn’t know it was the
last time we’d be there
before you wandered
into the woods with a gun.

But I wonder if you did.
If, when we hugged good night,
you held on just a little tighter
than you would have otherwise.

What I’ve been trying to say is–
in poetry and empty howls to the universe–
“I’m sorry you didn’t know,
but I saw you. I did.”