The thing that finally got him wasn't the cancer,
nor was it the heartbreak or the cross-town bus,
it wasn't never finishing the crossword in the Sunday Times
nor was it never having finished his novel.
It wasn't the way his mom looked in that dress
or the way his dad looked in it three years later.
It wasn't the empty bottle she left behind
or the way the cat looked at him when he came home.
It wasn't genetics, it wasn't environmental.
It wasn't reasonable, it wasn't eventual.
It wasn't a coffee stain or hpster glasses.
It wasn't the promise and it wasn't the blood.
There was something else –
but he never found out what it was.
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