This is not another heartbreak poem. I am not alone. I do not miss you. My life is not a waking death. I have never been anywhere without you.
In France, you laid your head in my lap in castle ruins. Lilacs grew fast, mimicking one of those time lapse nature shows where seeds become full- fledged roses in thirty seconds flat. Vines wound themselves between your fingers, necklaced your throat, crowned you king of everything that ever mattered–guitars and love and orange blossoms and the pink pads on the bottoms of bobcat kittens’ feet. I watched you sleep, wrote odes to your not-there knuckles, your missing kneecaps, your invisible eyelids.
When I died in New Orleans, beads dangled from trees. Decked out in bangles and bell bottoms, street psychics cackled as I screamed. The waning moon un-beamed, went black. Smoke stacks buckled. You came and reached for me. “Stay!” I shrieked. The boiling ground sucked you away.
The day I looked down on London from the Eye, you told a joke, something about a baroque bar and a goat, and we laughed. Later, rain pelted us. Umbrella-less, we ducked under an awning until it drooped, ruptured, and drenched us. “Surrender to the baptism,” you whispered, held my face, and kissed me hard. Red busses streaked, and we sneaked into an alley, just behind the cemetery where Mark Bolan lies. Our eyes gave birth to visions. The downpour washed us clean. Our guanine reconfigured, rewrote our DNA. The holy spirit fell that day. I spoke with the tongues of angels. And you. You raised the dead.