Oh, What a Beautiful Diamond You Had

I endured years

leading up to this moment,

without kin,

watching the world burn

from the outskirts.

 

Passing messages entirely

through tin cans

tied by fists worth of string.

 

Every one of our days apart were visible

in the scars snaking his arms.

His veins looked

to move beneath

flesh made of glass.

 

When he and I

locked eyes,

they were on a façade

lifted straight from

Picasso’s Blue Period.

 

Later

I woke in an unfamiliar state.

 

But now

it’s an all too typical sentiment:

 

I think it was me who died that night,

they just forgot to bury me.