shot, dead

April was never a month for living. Apparently even the world's savior died that month. 18 is a special number. There are 18 holes on a golf course. 18 is the age you are legal to kill in time of war. And on the 18th of April you sent me spiraling deep into a shit hole without a shovel. Right now you are sleeping sound somewhere in Europe. I could give two fucks where. The point is that you are gone, vacant from this poignant cold country I call home. There are leaves stuck to my sock. I wonder, are there dead foliole in Milan?