I ask myself
If a memory
Implies a moment
I actually made.
If a mirror
Image and models,
Idols, and masses
Intertwine and make
Inside all minds
Internal anguish. Madness.
If anxiety makes
Impossible a more
Ideal, acceptable matter.
If a movement
Implies a mountain,
Is a miss
Instantly a more
Important action? Maybe
Instead all make
imperfect acceptable magic.
Isn't a misses
In a magdalene?
Inside a mind
Imagination always matters.
If attacking madness
In any manner
Is allowed, maybe
I am mad
Inside and my
Intuition approves me.

Your hands felt like my own skin.
I couldn't tell
if you were dead already,
or if it's just heavenly
being around you.
Your happiness radiating
and your face,
with the sun looking at it through the shades
one last time before you're burned
and urned to be spread among the rocks
without your name in stone,
it was blinding me.
I couldn't bare to look.
But now,
it's hard not to see you.
What's after death?
Phone calls on seashells
without having to let it ring,
I'll always pick up immediately.
Our connection will resemble rain.
When my life gets cloudy,
you'll come down to help me.
You've always been there.

Baby back ribs and piggy back rides.
Plane seats in coach and airplanes by the couch.
Times when your words were gifts
to help my present dilemmas,
and times when my biggest dilemma
was what to tell Santa.
Frequent naps on your La-Z-Boy laps.
Sometimes I like to sit back
and reminisce about the places we've been -
Seattle for games, Wild Waves,
and though I may be too old for big slides now
I still wonder who would win in a race.
Time slips by us too quick.

I'm afraid of trips to the hospital
you know that.
I'm allergic to dogs, cats, and dust
of course you know that.
Something I can't bear,
but you live for.
It starts with a wheeze,
a trembling cough with no matter
andthenIpanic.
   Fiddling through old pockets and and a glove box
             ican'tbreathe.
                       I know you're somewhere close
                                 wherethehellareyou?
                                           Hiding in a pocket from yesterday
                                                   thankyoujesus.
Gripped firmly to my mouth
I give your silver top a hard push
AND THEN AT LAST
vapor fills my airways to ease the inhales
from my last cigarette.
A subtle sweet taste, like spray candy
mixed with cough syrup.
I hold for ten alligators so you can work in peace
as you navigate through swamps
of shisha and THC.
A thick fog I cannot see.
Ripping the mucus from my walls
making tar stuck to tissue seem like a lubricant
for a fire engine.
At last clean air.
A moment enjoyed for a minute.
One last puff,
and I'm not dead yet.

Looking at my screen
for your voice in words
over, and over,
and over.
Maybe it's me.
I know I may not be
the man of your dreams,
and I would apologize for that
if I didn't feel like reality
is just so much more enjoyable
when you're around.
Or when you tell me
about the nightmare you just had.
Instead, I'll hold on to this
decaying black screen
until you remind me
why I don't mind technology.

You are the definition of fiction.
An adventure,
one I can't take my hands off of.
One where the hero has
been through so many
climaxes and I'm still
left stuck in my bed
craving for more.
One I wish I could live myself,
but when I understand
what you are
I'm torn between living
as if you never lied to me
and replacing the broken
mirror in your bathroom.