i thought you were going to die, so chelsea says

i thought you were going to die, so chelsea says,
casually, to me, that night in tucson, arizona,
that night of six and a half, of valium, to me,
casually. am i not to die, i felt in love so few,
so many times, casual in love and then pushed out
like the air from some tired breathing.
i stayed up all night drunk and talking
to your mother, chelsea, we have had so many,
so few words between us. who are you, who were you then
who you are now or weren't you? you turn your head
around things, you speak to yourself in 3rd person,
chelsea, you say, oh, chelsea, they've stolen my car
again, i've mistrusted my own eyes, my own dying,
the books on the kitchen counter, the dishes.
do you even remember the dishes, now, chelsea?
the hotel room then, west texas, your mother
and the words that lie between. are they too few
or too many, are they both and neither the same.
had i died would you live that much longer,
had i died there, chelsea?