You weren’t always a ghost, sometimes a bit distant or “emotionally reserved” as they say, this easy, strong, quiet presence. Six feet tall and suave, you with the crazy wave in your hair, fierce dimples, a hint of gold around your pupils, all of it. You wrapped me. I was a junkie for years, before the doctor gave us the diagnosis, that dim one. And so in time, you began to diminish: mouth slack, the sunken eyes, all those empty spaces I couldn’t fill with the muscle mass fading-fading inside a flat grey room, the place that was icy, far too cold, for one person to stand.
Until the last evening, that night, I finally found the strength to search for any part of you that was left. No sleep. I was all wired up, and on a hunt, prowling around for anything, digging for a small piece, that teeny-tiny spark, something I could hold, the light that was you. Poof, before it burned OUT.
Now I carry it.
I carry it with me.
Until the last evening, that night, I finally found the strength to search for any part of you that was left. No sleep. I was all wired up, and on a hunt, prowling around for anything, digging for a small piece, that teeny-tiny spark, something I could hold, the light that was you. Poof, before it burned OUT.
Now I carry it.
I carry it with me.
