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Too much now,
I imagine suicide.
Lying in bed,
Better Midler
as The Rose
stands in a phone booth
flicking pills into her mouth,
the denouement before the climax.
I hear you and I arguing
about the stupid catbox,
the fucking dishes
before I said good night.
Knowing you can't satisfy me,
you mix a bottle of vodka
with your panic-attack valium,
kick back for a marathon of M*A*S*H on Nickelodeon,
listening to the theme song intently.
It's painless
and brings on many changes.
It takes on the moment
as you drift off to sleep
and drift off the couch
onto the floor.
The next morning,
I look for you
between the coffee table
and the couch.
But your death is so complete,
you're just gone.
February 25 2011, 15:38:31 UTC 1 year ago