You with your teased platinum hair and cigarette,
me with my slate eyes and chunky burgundy heels you shoplifted for me,
and too much time.
It was decided
we would write about the politics of the seven deadly sins.

I.
Anything more passé
than a pesky heroin habit
you loved and held close
for you and by you.
So it was decided
we would use a typewriter.

II.
For Christmas,
you asked for a new liver.
I bought you a bottle of Grey Goose instead.

III.
The way your eyebrows arch,
your wardrobe (the perfect harmony of thrift shop buys
and department store sales),
and how your glass was always 3/4ths filled
never was enough.

IV.
“Communism doesn’t work
because of lazy people like me,” your bright red lips pronounced.
I tried to explain that communism wouldn’t work,
even if there weren’t
people like you.
So it was decided
I would write about the politics
of the seven deadly sins.