You are
off-centered, slightly,
and I've got my arm thrown around your shoulders
like we're about to call a play
or blow out some candles.





She said you got too serious and


wanted it all.

Graduation, and we never
looked more alike than when we did
in those awful hot and sticky
caps and gowns.



She said it got to you.

Your left twists around a diploma and my right
holds a sliver of gold
to catch the sunlight and throw it back at the lens.
Our smiles don't match up.



She said it was her fault and she


should have seen it sooner, she could
have stopped

The frame is metallic burgundy,
silver pushing through red coats
of paint layered on and on until it's almost



you grabbing the nearest kitchen knife
and turning to the closest person
and I

obscured by the thickness of remorse and
weight of guilt until no one knows.





don't blame you really.