145.

you make me wanna write good more, find
healthier words with leaner muscles and better breath
words that can stand on their own two letters,
and lend you a hand
when you need it. because you always lent yours to me.
you were always my favorite thing
and I miss when you were
wrapped around my wrists and ankles, like a brace
the doctor gives you and says,
"this will help you heal."

and your words are strong like prairie winds
and they make mine wanna stand up taller and
puff out their chests,
and paint murals
with their typewriter fingers all along
my skin, and yours. because I write in the dark
with something breathing down my neck, but
you leave your pens out to dry in the sun
and they leave Texas heat
on the page.

you make me wanna take my medicine
every single morning, because I never want to push you
into hospital waiting rooms again. you were always there
to lead me by the hand, and show me
the green grass
when the sky seemed too bright to look at.
and now I'm on pretty good terms
with daytime, but I still write at night anyway,
and your country words are nudging me
out the door again,

telling me stories about us, and binding them
into a little book that I can read.

I still remember the night you were so drunk
that you wouldn't open the door for anyone
except me.
and I'm so sorry that I told everyone later.
it's just that I felt special to you
like a keepsake you wore in your shirt pocket every day
and telling the story helped me
not to forget.