You can have your poem now.

yearning:

an intense feeling of longing
for something that may have never existed
despite our soaked physical evidence
strewn across the bathroom floor
beside our limbs and your vomit,
a retching twitch in your gut,

"and let it be known that men
are more sexually possessive in their thoughts
and fantasies,

often leading them to the belief
that after pilfering through the slough
they are owed a perfect human being
fashioned from the schematics written on their rib or

pulled over the shape of adam's incomplete skeleton,
lusting for happiness
and an easy way to keep it because

that first fuck was just so good,"

though honestly, i don't remember meeting you,
your persistence a golden shadow in the hallway
where you looked at me from six stairs above:

hands hanging at your sides,
the noise of a crowd below the grating,
a hole in your left shoulder,
hair dark and frizzy,
eyes greener beside your red-burst whites,
nose pointed to ask
if i had ever done acid and if
i wanted to try it, "free of charge,

but the answer was okay,
because let it be known that oversexualized children
never learn boundaries or
slur them
with the steady precision of a drunken hand
aiming for the ashtray,
wanting flirtation, acceptance,
maybe sex,

or at least a suffocating dry hump
in your mother's basement
so you can touch what you have created,
a projected universe in neck pulses,

but never learning to get it without
giving it first,"

so my only vivid memory of you
is sloshed in gathered opaque pigments
on the oval mirror,
when the light is low and yellow and the steam
tastes like drip

after you snort a spoonful of water:
you look at me,
and talk about how good my cock was
until i rail a line of whatever
you cut on that CD case
after showing me the translucency of one
tiny crystal,

"and let it be known that
codependency is built in the stead of
a knowledge of relationships, how to maintain
what subtleties keep a boring life
difficult,
drudging,
bearable,
steady,

worthy."

the bathtub overflowed and valerie
called to say we were idiots for using her apartment,
that she paid too much for water damage and
all her neighbors heard us fucking,

and you told me it was fledgling damnation,
descended into that state where
everything was rationalized to meaninglessness but

i still don't think that's how it works,
and in response to your letter:
life was shitty with you, mirsad,
and you wouldn't be relieved to know
it's shitty without you, too.

"finally, let it be known that
suicide is the answer even if
nothing you could have done alive
would have penetrated
into that ice,

burned alive by your own temperature
for an eternity."