After your memorial service I spent time with one of your partners, a cam star, along with a mutual friend who was also your **** dealer.  We smoked shimmering moon rocks, exchanged books, and took pictures.  I wanted to mobilize, but didn’t know what for.  
My body felt electric at the root, ready for action,
if only I knew what.

We all said we would keep in touch,
and I desperately wish we had.  

I never got my books back.

So many things fell apart when you died.