Fire Island Song

It would be nice if you weren’t dead, you with your hair and skin flame-red and your way of getting me in bed. It would be nice if you weren’t dead.

It’s not time’s fault or even fate’s, though this second claim demands debate: Too many dead to live, you nearly said. You savored dread. You liked where it led.

You let death happen with your drinks and drugs, your tour of all the high points of despair. You were a living cigarette. You blistered and burned down. You let me down. This grates.