For Your Dream

You are the most sublime piece of music. Contained in notes of lust and melodies made of smoke and fiction.

I remember you quoting Bukowski,

comparing lives, I think, wishing to be

defined by great moments of pain

and long lost loves;

with your writing always sitting

sharp on the precipice

of Burroughs' needle.

I left before you died, and in

grieving I painted you brighter

than you had a right to be.

I give this memory over to the

shadows that consume these histories.

Your pain was never mind to hold,

your futures not mine to grieve.

Be dust, be music, be a fantasy

lost to time. I don't recall your smile,

or your visage. Tonight, you

were just fodder to a whim

to write, and I wondered,

if you would be proud.