The echo of your tracer like a sticker or a staple. Your first and final score. I thumb through a map and wonder about your last moments. If the song was some grand piano or a primary xylophone. My language is impeccable chrysalis. Dexter isn’t entertainment. I don’t want to play. Not if you’re in your forever house. I would’ve proofed you like a child. Bubble wrap and a battery pack. Green like you were.

You weren’t scrimmage to me. I dirge you from familial minor. From beige to mahogany to the last blue black. I felt you in the creek. Your end was a dreidel, a vacant lightning bolt.