On the morning after my life, I will find you shivering on the rocks, watching the fog sleep on Priest Lake. I will come to you in that old grey coat we found on the train. We can each wear a sleeve, and in the pockets, the chocolates, the lemon drops, and the peppermints you left. You can light my cigarette. And even if our buttons don’t match, even if our seams are coming apart, even if our threadbare griefs show through, we’ll still be warm enough to walk into the hazy water, slipping over the gravel and stones as if we had some place to go.
Kurt, I accept you for whatever you choose to do