When I think of myself
in that gas station,
standing before the open door;
the cold air on my weary body.
I think about her and her body
and how it was, in that moment,
in a refrigerator like those
faceless bottles of Gatorade;
for someone to come claim her.

As my palm gripped the container
and I rose its mouth to mine,
sweat coalesced condensation.
Fluorescent orange drooled
into the scraggles
of my twelve week

I felt my cells ingest the salts.
I felt my body working
and I mourned that hers did not.
Standing before the open door,
I cried dryly, too dehydrated
for tears.
In a heatwave, all the pores of
my body cried sweat
for all that was lost
to an emptied bottle
of pills.

written on 10/15/2013 by: Matt Kane