This Might Not Make Sense Now, But Don't Worry, It Will

By Noah Michelson

for Paolo Fanoli


When I ask Paolo how to draw the line between

not wanting to live anymore and wanting to die,

all he’ll quietly commit to is “that isn’t funny.”

I’m worried I worry him.

He says if I ever left him he would keep my body

under his bed and drag it out once a day to remember me,

prop up the less and less of me that’s left of me

and remind me of the world I left behind me — just look!

Some people can wake up every morning, open their

eyes and recognize something beautiful, even if it’s

just the sun slobbering across the bedroom floor with its

hot black tongue,

so, why can’t you?

He’s right, of course, but when I was 14, nothing was

more beautiful than the thought of the heavy gray

garage door guarding the far edge of my family’s driveway

and how sweetly, how surely it could kiss my head

apart from the rest of my body if only I asked it sweetly

enough.

Things were different then —

I still was afraid to ask for what I wanted then and I

spent my lunch hours holed up in the biology lab hiding

from the other boys, sobbing into my sandwich, another

pickled frog prince bobbing in his embalming fluid, one more

never-born piglet day-drunk on the useless daydream of

one day living someone else’s life on the other side of the glass

but we both know how that story ends.

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