Five years ago I stood on top of a bench in the park and wished you dead. It was windy and I had no coat, and goosebumps clung to my arms like plastic-wrap. You shook your head at me and asked, “But aren’t I dead already?”

Four years ago I drowned you in a sea of blackness. When one of the stoners asked me where I stood, I told him to get lost and continued to hold your head underwater.  He laughed, kissed me on the cheek, and I haven’t seen you since.

Three years ago I thought about you, and where you might be, but by then I was crazy-as-shit in love, and nothing really mattered anymore except his shoes, and the green shirt he always wore. I saw your picture and I laughed, but deep down inside I wanted you back.

Two years ago I almost picked up the phone to call you. I clutched the receiver so tight, that my fingers bled and I remember thinking that as far as freak-outs go, that was pretty fun. However, in retrospect I also recall how appealing cliff-diving looked.

Last year I held your journal in my hands and as I read it, I thought back on just what sort of person you were. I always used to ask you what side you were on, but your only response was always, “The side that wins.”

This year I visit your grave in the city, the black trickling swamp where I drowned you that day. I leave you his green shirt, my plastic-wrap skin, and that small little journal, perhaps thinking that bringing them can make peace with  you . I wonder if maybe you were right, but then again were you on the winning side? Or was I?