“Grabbing onto whatever’s around / For the soaring high or the crushing down”
-Elliott Smith, “2:45 AM”
His blue body was stiff
long before it happened—
a slice between bone,
no hesitation.
The case is cold
but to me he’ll always
be a sad man in a big
house in Echo Park
who hurts himself because
everything means nothing.
His voice is slack with breathy
restraint and a soft
tension that warms the blood,
timid throat coaxing
me to join in on all the things
that bred his little misery.
Find me curled
around myself in the dark,
replaying what happened
on my closet door,
guitar slides slipping
through my wet hair.