This house. This bed. This blood. This loss. This street. This sun. This song and pavement. This printed ache. This book of signs.
This mattress is a tourniquet. This pain is a psalm. These are the women I loved, these my promises of remission, my badges of burden.
The symphonies that survived the night: Sibelius 6, Mahler 4, "Eroica." Remember me a moment before you turn on the lights, remember these dreams of mine, I hang from your words.
These are the sheets I drift across. These are the stoplights at which I spent countless moments in consideration of choice. This is my regret, this, my gentlest laugh; this is the worst of myself that can never be excised.
This beating heart. This ancient muscle. This ceaseless talk of going, this gift of mine, this ancestor of calamity.
This is my soul of shreds, my self of scraps. The tiring fights. The amber joy. The oceans of night draped over an age of orphan wonder.
This, and all of myself: this heartache of glory, this endless surrender.