Waypoint 

by Jay Artemis Hull

My beloved and I share a movie in the living room. 

The man on the screen states “I have not lost my faith.” 

as he prepares to die. After it ends, we talk suicide– 

it feels inevitable these days, to talk. 

But here, to be honest for once, to take it cosmic–  

philosophies of honoring the bead of the moment, 

or vast oceans, or the hypothesis that they’re the same. 

Safety plans made this late would be better called  

damage control. Slash and burn fire prevention.  

I know I've been cold. Turning away from care  

and snapping at questions. Wish I could say  

I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. I'm sorry, I think.  

Just so tired in the way that turns everything off.  

As if closing my eyes to the light will let me sleep. 

My dreams these days are fragmented and cruel.  

I’m in bed, my partner crying to the phone; I wake 

to screams outside the office door; I’m with friends 

who are slowly dying by hemlock; I’m in bed.  

I can see the cell tower blinking through the blinds. 

That must mean this is reality. Waking  

with chamomile tea instead of the usual Earl Grey 

as an attempt to attain some semblance of calm 

in hopes my jaw will unclench enough to drink it. 

A walk in the morning mist, sending notes  

via songs added the secret playlist.  

There are more paintings in the crosswalks,  

dandelion and clover this time. Keeping an eye 

on the blink of the cell tower, just in case.  

 If I can see the skyline, I can find my way home. 

Jay Artemis Hull is an occult experience consisting mostly of love, longing and library facts.

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