I cry because you are moving to Minneapolis, I have never been there, because Nick died there, you can’t die there, too. I spilled all my guts to you last night at the Y-Not III, my pinked parts, my crush, my sad stories, you told jokes older than your own self, George Carlin’s obituary is already wrote, by you, you sewed two skull patches on one hoodie, your story, blushing in punk rock surplus, I told you a butterfly patch would be nice. A butterfly, you said. A pretty one. With eyes in its wings. I didn’t disagree, our kiss shorter than I’d hoped.