he said he believes that
after we die, we come back as birds
(but what happens after that
i asked; he shrugged and said
does it make a difference?)

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

He was a boy with beautiful eyes
and an appreciation for colorful socks and generic tea.

A boy that played the drums and went to festivals.
The kind of festivals that left him longing for a proper shower
and his mother's pork belly stew.

He dyed his hair a fitting shade of black
And though he was underwhelmed by the idea of anything romantic
his use of smiley emoticons was enough to make up for it.

He taught me the importance of learning to appreciate cheap wine
and the power of using compliments sparingly.

He was the kind of boy that would be fun to spoon,
or so I assume
because I've never met him.