Sinatra’s not the vibe.
I showed you mine,
you taught me yours.
The vinyl is old,
plosives sharp,
the bass swallows the walls,
but you still cry
for what might be lost.

It bleeds blue in your eyes,
your eyes on fire.
I look and cry too.
I don’t care if you see me naked—
I’ve never loved like this.

Flat on our backs,
the records spin,
a wolf stares from the ceiling plaster.
I wonder if you’re mine.
Wolves mate for life.
Wolves make each other feel
like teenagers again—
running wild, dreaming dumb,
but we’re not reliving old flames,
we’re unpacking them.

The lights go down.
The drive home was long,
silent except for the hum
of the highway,
until I start singing.

Share a cigarette with me in the shadow.
We can’t say goodbye—
it’s like dying and living
in the same breath.

Nothing lights your face,
but my eyes adjust,
find the only face I’ve ever loved.

You’re the only help
I don’t spit back out,
the only hand I can hold
without shame.

I like that you go to therapy.
I like that you tell me
my drinking scares you.
I like that you tell me
to have the wine anyway.

I’m the hive,
you’re the bee,
but we’re both dressed to kill.
No one sees us leave.

No certainty, no conviction,
just the unbearable weight
of life without you.

I reach into the dark,
touch your shoulder—
heaven isn’t out of reach.
It’s here,
between your books, your records,
your bones and mine.
between the bass in the floorboards
and the wolf in the ceiling,
between all the things
we could lose
but haven’t yet.