I was your disciple, carried with me your pills
like rocks, in my belly, unquenched by rivers,
touch-stones to rub against my will. Your breath,
like lithium, kept me grounded, yet rooted to the throb
of your incipient disease. Your love, it lacerated, razor blade
sharp, into flesh and soul. But with the wounds
you carried your salve, saved me while clearing
the way for my demise. The rain, your nemesis,
told cold stories in soft voices, walking down Yonge,
convincing me, in soft wet whispers, to run, flee the beast
depriving me my oxygen. Roots are terrible things, hauling
you back to orbit, to a gravity you’ll never accept. Like the rain
that took me from you, freed me from your hollow grasp, yet
dragged me that much further into crazy—just down the road apiece.
Words plucked from your waiting tongue, in efforts to cling
To something not quite healing, placebos not worth
sucking on, blips in an otherwise hectic night. Leaving you,
walking in the rain down Yonge, back bent to the wind,
I could feel, still, those lead-bellied pills, rocks in my belly,
Carried in memory of your love—a razor blade not swallowed.

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