four years later 

and I still fill September with fever dreams of you

I'm not sick the way I used to be, but I still find a way to infection 

my addled brain knocks quietly on my skull 

while I fall into bed - the same bed - over and over again 

roll onto my left side and I see the unspeakable ghosts of 2013

on my back I find 2014, slogging away in its bittersweet trenches

the right side holds 2015's numb monotony, doubled over at the waist 

and on my stomach? 2017 gives me a scroll of questions so long I can't even see the end 

pathetically, I know the answer to most of them will be you.

where? why? how? when? what? who?

you. you. you. you. you. you.

the illness driving a hole into my left knee is silent, toiling away

working to protect and kill myself in the same breath

and the red crown of roses falls from my head, to the bed, to the floor

odds are I'll ruin it when I finally wake up to discover it dead in the carpet

puddingstone sits, dusty, on my brother's headboard shelf

while I remember how to waste away