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In my own private Idaho
I’m in bed with River Phoenix
chain-smoking and talking about the afterlife.
He’s about to give up being famous,
I’m about to make him one more drink.
When I die, he says, looking at the way
I look at him, it’ll be a glorious day.
It’ll probably be a waterfall.
And because there’s so much water
in living, I help take his shirt off
right here on the earth.
Me and him. You and you.
Reading this to see if I’m acting,
if I’m really myself, if I’m good at pretending.
Why would we be here then, in bed together,
asking each other what the way back is
in case we happen to change our minds.