you standing there in tattered jeans and a t-shirt advertising a brand of washing powder they no longer sell. you will be sitting behind a construction site four hours and bouts of misery later. you, contemplating on my return. in some occasions i remember you with, your now new, jeans on the floor and you, in me. i shut down—i did when my cousin did this.
the day i get a police restraint against you, i will sharpen a steak knife that won’t even cut a tomato. “did you remember to buy pepper spray and rat poison?”, she keeps asking. i buy an oversized jungle green jacket that i will never wear. i see you breaking. i return to my cousin a lot, lately. in two days he will call to ask me to report to the nearest police station.
“do you know how to report a thirty-year old crime committed by a cop to another?” i want you dead; i won’t kill you. on the day you die, i might cry. or may be not. i will think of you suffering cardiac arrest in your sleep. (cancel that); you don’t deserve that kind of rest. too huge a favor for death to afford you.
today, my mind chooses to remember you like this: nothing.