I

I light the last smoke
with the half-black topped match.
The last smoke, the last shot at
a wild, slender dream.
And I wait, I wait
I wait for her to walk by
again barefoot beneath the cover of the long wet grass;
walk by my side and brush past my skin
just to feel what I felt
in a dream unseen.

Do you know her?
Do you know where she lives?
Do you know I love her?
Do you?
Does she?

I strive to wade on through
the labrynths of these words,
these words she spoke, these
words I believed.
These words that built
me dreams that hurt.
These words and more that still swirl in my head
like the soft turn of whiskey
on a dark, parched tongue.
I strive.

Do people live only to die?
Do people need to kill
dreams to exist?
Do people hurt?
Do people know?

I lay still on my back,
running my hand through my long wet hair,
awaiting her touch, awaiting her feet,
awaiting her smell;
awaiting my dream.
I am the safe-garden
where she locked a lonely boy,
her face is his life,
his life is his dream,
and I am the ruins of a little boy’s dream.