In June the fever has broken.
I am dry for over a year.
Impossible energies, but I still shake with fear.
Hotels make me think of whiskey,
and rainy afternoons spent fading away,
with a bottle and a pound of cheese,
and an AM station reciting the rosary.

From St. Michael's, on Stockton Avenue,
the rain and the neon, turn the room to a cathedral.

But now I'm over it at last,
done with the sweet melancholy.
Ten years lost to forgetting you,
but I'll miss you forever in June.

My friends wisely stole,
all my photographs of you,
to get my mind unfixed,
so I'd start on something new.
Looking after me I guess,
but it only forced me to imagine you.
To dream you up the way I was always mistaken you were.

Now it's over, now it's done.
Done with the sweet melancholy.
Ten years lost to forgetting you,
but I'll miss you forever in June.