well. i was looking through my old shit and found this boonecest piece i never finished, and i turned it into a poem. i'm a little disturbed at how quickly i churned this out. boonecest aaron boone/bret boone. shut up.

aaron (in parentheses)

time stands still for men like us, aaron.
you of all people should know what that
can do to a man.

sometimes Aaron wonders
if Dad ever knew but
decides he didn't
because if he knew, they would have
known, would have
been rended limb from limb
(well maybe just Aaron
Bret had a future you know)
Aaron reaches for the memory
of shitty vodka
on the tip of his tongue
and the taste of Bret
at the back of his throat,
only a little bit sad that
his life has become
a series of anonymous motels
and stained bedsheets,
beautiful wife and newborn son
tucked away like a broken picture-
frame, just an afterthought

(and the last remnants
memory destroys.)