A fine mist, sprinkled comfort,
wraps me in memory and your smile,
which belongs to heaven now.
Fullness of joy seeps into
every hidden place in me
even as it did the day
you snuck me up the fire escape
and onto the roof for your
smoking break.

   There we stood in brown leather
jackets, leaning ever so slightly into each other
against life’s relentless wind,
laughing and looking like we
planned it this way, this rooftop
   rendezvous.

That was the first day you knew,
wasn’t it, that the smoke curling
up from your Marlboro signaled
something? You did more than blow
smoke, Jim, though we loved to laugh
about the absurdity
of our time down here on earth
where some like to think themselves
immortal.

   You liked to call me kid or
Dorothy, lost in Oz. I
knew that home was in my heart.
Your wizard ways reminded
me I was there already
in that place where dreams are born,
   all else dies.

You told me once when I was
begging you to quit smoking
that I was "a god-damned gift
to you," fine mist falling there
upon your life; my smile, so
rare those days, like a whispered
secret you would keep until
we cut the ropes and sailed back
to heaven.