I'm not trying to romanticize something that is not there. The truth is, I don't even remember half of the conversations we had. I don't recall the feeling that came along when I'm talking to you. Was I happy? Was I sad? Did I even feel something? But then there's this space thudding in my chest, forming in my gut and it says that I miss you. I don't know why. I don't know how. I just do. It just seems like the missing puzzle piece in me is screaming. And it's screaming you.

I cannot say
     I did not know...
It was absolute,
     fall,
into the letters
     call....
me when it
     all gets better.
It was  
   no illusion....
or, what
     was felt
is better....
      then,
               fall
again,
            into
my arms,
            tonight.

It's 3am and I am wide awake
I have vicious nightmares at times,
Not horror movie types,
Just ones that I fear the most.
Being buried alive is bad--when it is the one you love it is even worse.
I hear him scooping the dirt in the shovel,  and pouring it on me.
"You really fell for it. All I had to do was pretend that I liked you,  and you fell right in."
He chuckles, as another pile of dirt is added.
Im begging him
"Please,  what do you want?  I'll do whatever you want,  just let me out! "
He chuckles again,  "You say that....they always say that... But you know what?  You lie,  all you women just lie your way into jobs, relationships,  and hell, even in marriage! You think I'm going to suddenly believe you out of all of them?! "
The casket is slightly sinking from all the dirt that is piled on now.
I'm sobbing uncontrollably as I realize my fate.
"I'm different, you said it yourself. When I met you,  you said--"
"Well I lied.  I'm getting pretty good at it.  Practice makes perfect."
I continue to cry, and my one last attempt at freedom--
"I love you. "
He stops shoveling, and with a raggedy breath,
"...What? "
I open my heart for my last plea,
"I give my heart fully to anyone that accepts my quirks and even the weird parts about me.  In the brief time we knew each other,  you laughed at my corny jokes,  smiled at me,  and even wanted to know about me.  So even as I am about to die,  
Why would I lie with my last words?  I might as well say what I truly feel because that is what I do. I fall headfirst in love with someone I barely know,  and that is why I always get heart broken no matter what.  So what I just said I meant it. "
He paused,  then he tosses the shovel down beside the hole,  and he jumps down into my grave,
"Well,  I--
My eyes snap open.
It's 3am and I'm wide awake.

IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

Let's make a deal
that the smoke scented
taste of your tongue
will never leave mine.