Somewhere in the backyard of this memory is you and me and a fresh opened beer and the cigarettes that we still smoked when no one was looking and we could convince ourselves it was terribly grown up. How it all feels like bullshit now. The call you are never going to make, and the making I am never going to call. You wish you had Sylvia Plath, but I wish I had a black crow, flying, black and ragged, tree to tree.
You tell me you are going to miss me when I die, and how can we be kinder and kinder to each other when one day I am going to die and leave you alone to all that relentless guilt. That, I said, “is the luxury of the living”.