The writing instructor tells me to focus on my endings

but since your death I
have had enough

of those
so baby brother

let’s rewrite
our middles

remake them
into sci-fi novels

full of machines
to whisk us to another era

Hallmark scripts
in which the only thing

in danger
is the holiday parade

no a memoir
in which we wake up

side by side
in stitches

with half
my liver

nesting beneath
your heart

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