for Brian.


last night I might have been
a bit delirious,
dreaming in a canopy of
bones, paper-sticks and
Dali’s fiery ants

but I dreamt of your face,
the one that I almost forgot,
those tragic bluebulb eyes.


I have to tell you
that I am bad at keeping in touch
with people,

and I hate
the raspy murmur that
telephones make, like
a thousand buttons
falling on metal floor,

but that is
no excuse,
I am out of
all excuses.


I compose this
while the radio is on full blast
playing a song about superstars
and my forehead feels like
a conflagration of
yellow skin. a
few days ago
I thought I might die,
that cave on my leg

poisoning me and
I could only think
about those ones
I almost forgot,
those ones who
changed me, like
crystal chandeliers
broken in a
box.


last night I even remembered
those stories you used to tell me


about boots in the snow
and fathers
who couldn’t recognize
your beauty, the teardrops
falling off the edge of your
soul like sapphire icicles
in an audience of ghosts.

I used to be jealous of a dead women,
the one who loved you most
because I was unable to love you
the way she did.

someday there will be
another for you,
a beautiful girl with daisies
in her pockets and
golden hair swirling around her head
like random flickers of
the palest stars

and I wish it could have been me.


i
am
sorry.

I hate clichés, but I am
feeling blue,
and

every time I think of stories
and poetry,
melancholy and zen,

I will think of you.

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