Pisces's Son

A poem about something that never was.

You did
cocaine in the
hotel bathroom
before you
smashed your
bike, sending bone
splintering against
the rail.

Pale faced
and willing, you
swung at
Mars, your
Pisces soul
caught beneath a
current too strong, too
unfamiliar.

Be my morning,
the breath
before the realization

you were pieces
of papier-mâché,
something I glued
against my skull,

lodged deep the
my amygdala,
a lifelong synapse

of connecting limbs
and wanton indiscretions.