If they ask about me, tell them about Roger Street. The parts only we could see. How the places we live look so small when you pass by on feet; seems like they couldn’t contain the size of lives that we lead. When you add it all up, it’s just separate rooms where we’d sleep, concrete slabs that we used for back steps, six-foot weeds grown from butts of cigarettes, kisses in the garden where neighbourhood cats would sleep, stones’ throws away from agony, the cemetery where you and he would meet seen through windows where I wrote our names in steam. Gethsemane.