so it’s a week later and I sit here with a bottle and a candle and think about how you used to make fun of me for my Southern Comfort and Diet Coke (no ice) while you did shots of Jack, and how we always ended up with your hair in a knot in my hand to keep it out of your face and it got to the point where I just kept a few bottles of ginger ale on the back of the toilet so they’d be handy.
so it’s a month later and I haven’t emptied the ashtrays since you left and I’ve run out of ashtrays. I’m down to my last carton. Soon I’ll have to decide whether to leave the apartment or call your favorite Chinese place, who will deliver smokes and beer along with rangoon and lo mein, the place I haven’t ordered from because soy sauce reminds me of you.
so it’s six months later and I fell asleep in the chair and my cigarette slipped from my fingers onto the arm of the chair that used to be yours and isn’t it funny how they call them coffin nails? On the upside I never liked that landlord anyway. I’m sure he’d sue me had he made it out alive.
so it’s a year later and they tell me if my therapy continues as scheduled I should be able to walk with assistance in two to three months. Which coincides with my arraignment because in the rubble after the fire they found your charred remains, and there wasn’t much of a way I could talk myself out of that one, could I?
so today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in London Grip, Sage Cigarettes, and Sin Fronteras, among others.