Ray, I think of you now
with your lover
out of country,
when I light my cigarette,
and how we smoked during conversations
of all the fags in literature,
and how it seemed right that night
to drink to Canada.
Now, in my mind,
all of your conversations with him
will be adorned with
new anticipations and beginnings.
You are part of all those things
taken place in youth
that can no longer be spoken of
for fear of tarnish.
After all of the days and countless nights of watching time
play mysterious tunes upon the lengths of your limbs
you continued to treat all of the small town novelties
like the static characters that they are,
and will be.
So I hope that you are safe;
sleeping inside a million memories
of rooftops and fields
with your ancient gin wealth,
and your arms
holding all of those orange lilies
fresh from damp closets
and on your island
filled with your sketches,
and your books,
I hope that you still welcome the light
that sheds the hair of the sun
on your scars, unnoticed,
and that you still deem loneliness a myth,
meant only for the simple.