The last time I saw you
you were blonde, the hair cropped close,
washing out your skin until it looked like mozzarella.
I watched you mosh with the big boys,
your torso compact and careful
I waited for you to fall.
I waited for you to recognize me
to call me with your hand, your eyes wide
matching the sweetness of your lips.
I waited for you to find me watching
Waited for the inevitable nose crinkle
for ignoring you in the middle of a crowded concert hall.
I watched your whimsy overflowing
your laughter higher than a hyena
running rampant into the laughter of others.
Last night, I thought of you,
your colorless picture in the paper filling me in
on the happening afterhours of you.
Your hair could still be blonde, I suppose,
but all I see is the washed out look in your eyes.
You aren’t dead
but you sure aren’t living.