He'd taken so much heroin it must have knit his bones.
He'd skip school to bike the city up and down,
a scream and a careen, a grimace and a glide.
Then ice his poor knees with a bag of frozen peas.
Every story he told smelled of bread baking
in his bachelor kitchen, our garlicky dinners
there. What have you done, Adam,
without me? Your bread is sour with missing.
You roll over sometimes just to stare at the silly
pillow, where an unflattering silkscreen
of my profile is ghosting. You're a spoon,
but there is no gerund in sight.
Your tongue could have been plated nickel
or carded wool for all it touched my skin.
How I loved you. We never even kissed.