and all the ways we find them in our hairbrush or
the screens that light up our nine-to-five eyes.
Will we ever stop crying about the dead star,
the one who wrote the song we put eyeliner on to,
the one who we play in the house when there’s nothing else
to say to our families, a car game that happens outside of the car,
the feeling of steadily leaving this place but still remaining inside of it.
We say we miss them but we don’t mean them.
We mean the autumn we discovered them,
when we had our headphones in and felt like we were
a movie. We mean the way the breeze felt on our skin that day,
while we walked toward our best friend’s house.
We mean words put to music that belong
on the refrigerator of our hearts,
a magnet that holds up a picture of our nephews.
We mean a history that was never written for us,
those words that found themselves in our mouths
and danced out so easily.
The words we whispered
to the person we danced with while
looking at the ring on our fingers.
We mean the person they played who felt like
our uncle.
We mean the lines written by a bitter writer
and said so preciously by the performer,
who was able to make the sentiments
into mirrors they held up to us—
we mean our very own precious identity,
turned into a dust and packaged into a pill
we can swallow.
Another one died today and the world felt
darker because we were left with ourselves.
How can I stop crying about the dead star
when I am slowly smoking away in a room?
I am desperate to give everything meaning,
including myself.
I am trying to make this universal.
I am trying to include You.
Once, You told me that You’ve felt that way before.
You’ve sat on my bench and You’ve looked up at the stars,
You’ve thought: nothing matters, why am I here,
You’ve thought: I haven’t made anything worthwhile and why would I try?
But then, You told me, I’ve gotten cold and I’ve gone inside.
I’ve turned on the stove. I’ve waited for the water to be ready.
I’ve made myself something to eat.
There were dead celebrities everywhere,
which means everywhere, holes are getting
larger.
Obviously, it was time to make a profit.
It sold out within minutes.
It was sponsored by Instagram
and Facebook.
They have control over
the algorithm, we guess.
Everyone you’ve ever missed
in one place: Barclays Center.
One night only.
Melissa hates it there.
She walks past the line.
Crumpled printout tickets.
Phones out.
A Telemundo anchor
interviewing a fan in tears.