sometimes i wonder
what you're doing
with yourself

less and less often
you invade my thoughts
at the most
innapropriate times
now
you're barely a ghost
haunting my mind

sometimes we would
sit and talk
for untold hours
debating who was better:
bukowski
or rimbaud
and what kind of
writer
we wanted to be

other times
we laid in silence
in candlelit rooms
speaking with our eyes
the thunderstorm
creating an island for us
around an old cabin

for many years
i asked myself
what i did wrong
to be left sickly
and alone
in an airport
in a foreign land
left to fend for myself
in jolly old england
surrounded by a people
who didn't speak
americanese

two weeks of pain
and enlightenment
found in pub crawls
roughing with hooligans
and repetetive conversations
with gingey birds
things turned out okay
it turns out
there's much to be said
for being stranded

i kept your letters
from the times before
and read them
like scripture
in an endless cycle
of self abuse
for many years

my dreams of you
a constant source
of confusion
and despair
but they have almost
stopped now
it's been many seasons
since the last one
where your name was written
in petroglyphs
on the main mast
of an ancient ship
sailing churning seas

that's all that
is left of you now
no more pictures
of you in a box
and your letters
are now ash
now
you're just a name
sailing away
in a fading dream

a terrible
and debilitating
toxin
that has finally
been leached from my bones
like oppressive grey lead
and now i feel
like my soul is my own
again

still
i wonder how you are
and what you're doing
are you having
deep conversations
with anyone lately?
does he make you feel
like i used to?
do you laugh freely
and effortlessly
and cry at his slightest
smile?

i sincerely
hope so
your smile
was a thing
to cherish
and i only ever
wanted you
to find happiness
in your life

until
i remember
that chilly day
at heathrow airport