everything is a kind of dying

making out on the basement couch is worthy of subterfuge and celebration

and it's death. the ghost of innocence watches me from the corner of the room

lamenting.

graduation, the end of high school. it's death of all your circumstantial friendships and the way the sidewalk feels under your feet in your neighborhood

it's getting drunk and confessing things we shouldn't have

done in the first place. it's an epitaph for something that's already dead

nostalgia is a sister to grief. the past is dead

that boy from summer camp bleached his hair blonde and shaved it off

the cells were already dead, right?

these people at the party you argue with while you kill your liver with alcohol

they'll never call you back

they slip out of the room prematurely. the night takes them unannounced like death

even the paper i write on, the tree someone killed to make it. i ruin it with ink, it's tainted even in death.

the grease on my fingertips erodes the keyboard. but the apple juice i choked out and spit

still makes the keys stick.

i guess there's something immortal about that.