My insides are burning and I didn’t even drink the bourbon you left at my house. I’m hanging pictures of us like a memory. Feel the wind hit my eyes, I swear I’m not crying. I’m unremarkable in all the right ways. I write poems about being sad and everyone says it’s because I have a deep soul that runs like a river. But, I feel like I’m drowning in it. Your eyes are dark like the fresh asphalt they paved on Albion road twelve summers ago. The one we raced down for miles and miles and miles and when we spun out, the tires screeched like a beautiful crescendo. The whole town heard it and you looked worried for the first time ever. You felt finality and I lapped up the thrill of it all. What’s your version of a peaceful ending? You buried me alive. And if I asked you about that night, I bet you’d say you weren’t scared at all. Tell me my poems are about a stranger you never met. That memories are as sacred as you make them and you worship nothing at all. Feels like a whole new life. Feels like a choice. Feels more than twelve summers ago. I think it’s funny you stopped drinking. I bet you can’t even say my name without choking. -AMT©️