For Jordan

The line moved, and moved, and moved again
Not like a drawing or a rope
But a border, a limit, an end of capacity

They had been reaching out, wings at full expanse
Trying to encircle, and possibly hold,
The meager amount of oxygen we had left

No amount of glitter or cancel culture,
No amount of perverted sex or organizing
Could prevent the talent from succumbing to their addictions

You see, time had piled up in this way
Stacking diagnosis on failed romantic love on poverty
More than just a gloomy Sunday

We are dying inside ourselves.

The line moves, and moves, and moves again
Not like a drawing or a rope
But a revolting dance