some kind of receptacle for the bits of bone in my life
that he cushions with the ashen cancer
made malignant by his seized rise-and-fall
i glanced reproachfully at the necktie in my closet
through a gap between the door and its frame
and mull over if his breath felt trapped
there in the moving walls of his esophagus.
did his endorphins ever revolt--and
if they did
were they too late?
possibilities glare in the curve of his nose,
the inescapable empathy nesting on his brow
that ejected him from the cockpit--
I resist the urge to draw lines between
the hands that move me
with the fingers that forsook control.
when they shook their bodies to those riffs
did they know they were dancing to
your personal prophesied elegy?
i could have moved my hips to your secrets
without an uttered word
and I find it hard to chase them away
even post-mortem.
because we would have been friends
and the pale of your eyes confuses his irises
when he lingers on my lips.
we could have swung together.
(this isn't even a picture of ian curtis)
