Vene May

you will be reduced to a tower block
of photographs we stack in a drawer
beside our beds and occasionally tile
like a stained glass window
across our walls as a reminder:
we have cried here before. We drank
cheap wine here before. We have

played soccer at your void decks sneaked
to your roof danced to the worst renditions
Bohemian Rhapsody
plucked the guitar strings of our ribcage 

to the off tune Fsharp twang of our souls.