I.
You were there,
and I was there
too.

And your smile
as you waved
goodbye
(though you did
not know it).

Lindsay,
why didn’t I—
The pale,
silver light
of the moon
reflected off
the gently
rippling water
as you seemed
to swim.
I just watched…

II.
You gave me
pop-tarts first
a year ago,
fresh from
the toaster;
you always
gave me the
one with more
frosting.

The wrinkles
of your smile
(and the spinach
between your teeth)
as we walked,
your hand in mine,
through the city
of lights,
where the doors
of perception
now lie
shut and dead.

You look—,
seem—, looked,
radiant,
like—
like nothing
before or since;
at the place
where speech fails.

III.
What can I do?
I can—
I can still hold
your shirt.
It still smells
like you,
like your sweat,
like your perfume…

I felt empty,
deep inside,
at the funeral,
when everyone
was looking at
your coffin and
not at all at me.
Qué bonito es
un entierro.

You know—
knew—that
I love—
(loved?) you
wholly,
completely,
simply.
And yet—
I watched you—

IV.
When I try
to sleep
at night,
when I lay
my head down,
I see nothing.
I do not
dream
of you.
I do not
dream
of our first kiss.
I do not
dream
of your death.
I do not
dream
of your funeral.
I do not
dream.