I once had a friend that came along like February.
We kissed once January.
December was a bad mouth for both of us, cheap wine was finest times.
His big paintings sold in November.
My short fiction published in October.
September blew with it a sadness
heard in my landscapes, seen at his piano at 4am.
The fucking pounding. All these September fists. They pound and pound.
August bled like the reddest paintings. He picked up a ran-over rose on the way back to the car, plucking the bad pedals then handed it to me.
He called his Dad finally in July, asked him why he moved out to Detroit in the first place.
In June, I thought of him right after my car crashed into a concrete median. I called my mom.
May was made of bonfires and forgetfulness.
April was made of bonfires and his sweatshirt I borrowed in my trunk.
One day in March we sat in his car and talked about how our art would make us money. What a picnic. What a show. How big our steaks would be. This big.
How big our steaks would be.
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