My boyfriend’s dead.

I want to drink in the afternoon, say fuck you to strangers, ignore polite questions, and move to Australia.

Instead, I’m taking in jazz and letting loose of the blues he introduced me to.

I’m writing the way I did when he fell in love with me.

Passion, even in sorrow, flows from my soul.

I’m dancing alone. Oh, but he’s so with me.

He’s writing this now. He’s taken me over the way he did in life.

He’s washing me with his love. All the filth falls away.

I see beauty in spite of my resistance.

Like when I fell for him against all reason.

We’re still in each other’s worlds.

Although we’re worlds apart.