He’d spill a novel
about how the only time I told him
his art was beautiful
was when the
whites of my eyes
were on fire.

His wall would be
polluted with Pulitzers
for every article he’d hurl
where I was hungover
in the hallway.

He’d burn his memoir
so he wouldn’t remember
how his face froze
when he watched
me withdraw.

His handwriting would blur
when signing his name
to pay bail.

He’d stutter when reading my eulogy.