To you, one year ago

She died of alcoholism, wrapped in a blanket, decked up, washed away on the shore of Malaga and there isn’t much I can do than send a bottle of wine for her casket. The Chinese man with a CCP shirt parks his tesla right across my face and I can still hug the scent I fell in love with, I am kissing multiple woman and forget to call my mother, the lower east side gallery displays mirrors where I can drown myself in brief moments of anxiety and run my hands through the open veins of rusty mirrors. I reason my will by giving it away to a prostitute in Amsterdam and I hope she makes space between her ribs because I wanna stay in her soul. Suddenly, I don’t have to squeeze in sofas anymore. My phone is on the table and my friends are leaving. I don’t have any turquoise, green, brown, blue, yellow with hint of black eyes to look into, just a bowl of kimchi, a plate of teriyaki rolls and a pack of Marlboro to live for. The eyes that once drowned me in judaism seem lost in blank pages, her mind begging her hands to draw a canvas and built the cult we all dreamt of, because in our isolated commune, we were taught that the world was about to end, but our worlds ended when we left.