I remember the first time we played Minecraft.
Years ago. We spawned in a barren snow biome.
Resources were scarce. We needed food,
so we killed some cows and pigs for raw meat.
Then we spent a long time walking
before we found a tree to punch for some wood.
It was nighttime by then, which means
skeletons were appearing and shooting
us with arrows. They shot our little square heads
and our little square legs and arms and hands
until our screens went red and we were back
at our spawn point with nothing. We rushed
back to our death-piles to reclaim the wood
we had dropped, but immediately got pummeled
with arrows again. Red screen. You Died! Spawn point.
Repeat. We kept trying until a square sun replaced
the square moon and so much time had passed
that our wood had despawned from the ground.
I felt genuine sadness when I realized it was gone.
When you don’t have enough of something
you need, anything can feel like everything.

And I feel that sadness again today
as I grieve standing in front of the toilet, flaccid penis
in hand, a leftover droplet of urine plunging to its death.
I’m not grieving for the urine itself, or for the clear water
I’ve just dyed the color of a pixelated golden apple.
I’m grieving because of the skid mark.

Your skid mark.

Last night’s skid mark.

The skid mark you left on the side
of the toilet bowl before you packed
your bags and got into your mom’s car.

I’m grieving because I drank too much beer
and self-hatred today, and in my fucked-up state,
I didn’t catch myself power-washing
your skid mark from existence.

I never wanted to make it — or you — disappear.
I never wanted to send you back to your spawn point.

Last night’s argument was chaos. Hard mode.
I don’t know why we were speed-running.
We should have zoomed out.
We should have tried different camera angles.
We should have eaten some raw steak and pork,
kept still until our heart meters replenished,
let the skeletons burn in the sun.