Deckchair For Your Ghost

My deckchair's in the garden for the final show.

Every suicide novella ends as spiderlegged code.

A vague scribble of confused intimacy.

People like me, people who they say cannot love;

its gas like that which starts me thinking

I should prove them all right, in the most abominable ways.

Long mindless tentacles of heat stretch from the sun,

germinating some nameless desire

I can’t fathom, 'til I close my eyes.

If you populate your identical dreams with tiny creatures,

they'll keep talking, and keep talking, and keep talking, and keep talking.

Each voice describes an asteroid colliding with the planet,

somehow if it isn't my fault,  then the story doesn't make sense.

Then I feel them find you miles away and dig you up and lock you in a vault;

I've never been so scared I'll never find your body.

Hiding in plain sight, I can't remember why I'm hiding,

and I struggle to remember if I'm the one who killed you.

It's a relief to know they can't hold me to ransom,

'cos what I did or didn't do doesn't matter;

I'm not suicidal, I just want to sit down.

I've given up pretending memories retain any real authenticity.

I've set a deckchair for your ghost so that we can both watch flames

 lick at the celestial horizon.

Future kin will breathe our dust, uninformed.

If you populate your identical dreams with tiny creatures,

they'll keep talking, and keep talking, and keep talking.

They can’t help me to remember why I'm hiding,

and I struggle to remember, and the story doesn't make sense.

Then I feel them find you miles away

and rouse you into preternatural life,

somewhere that I can’t hear you.

They can’t help me to remember why I'm hiding

and I struggle to remember if I'm the one who killed you.

I'd rather lose the marrow inside my bones

 than an argument that I'll never understand.