138/365

all his heroes
are suicides.
turn out the lights
and set yourself on fire
the song says.
chris. kurt.
hunter. elliott.
how can there be so many
words for sorrow
and not one comes close
to the tangible truth
he’s known since
those first memories:
the uncle on fire
behind the waves.
the frail ankle
caught in the spokes.
the creeping hands
in the darkness.
the just getting by.
the arguing.
the solitude.  
the crashes.
the hospitals.
the split.
the plunge.
the lessons learned
(embrace the sadness)

because their candles
burn too bright,
we almost forgot
it is twilight.

all his heroes
are suicides,
and so, in this house
we long to be
room by room
patiently,
we’ll wait there
like a stone
to make the
insoluble night
more pliant, the pain
more peaceful—
a collective step
toward a palpable truth.