It’s been two years
and you still come to me in visions,
in some prophecy I can’t fucking understand,
with arms open,
reaching out across the wide, empty sea.
There are no words to say to your memory
that don’t infringe on cliché; I’ve said them all,
I’ve said them in the bitter darkness of midnight depression,
I’ve cried out for you in the blazing light of a summer day.
I hope you can hear me
as I hear you,
one or two words in your voice, warm and jovial like butterscotch,
woven into the conversations of strangers.
It breaks me down;
I still love you.
You inhabit a hollow place in my heart
reserved for only the greatest of men.
You were always my exception.
In life and death,
you are loved, my angel.
You are loved.