Violet memories fill my aching bones.
My fingers still work, but I can’t seem to phone.
Alone in an alien apartment I play the blues
On an obsolete speaker while thinking of you.
Dripping orange sunsets spill through the blinds.
I would get a job, but I’m full of cancer, and aged seventy-nine.
Pining from sunrise until I fill up my cup.
Whiskey on the rocks, I’m back coming up.
Indigo paint on the car in the street
That I haven’t used, oh, in many a week.
Meet me at the station and we’ll ditch this lost city,
But we haven’t spoken in decades, oh, what a pity.
Blood red on a tissue whenever I cough.
The patio door is open; I run and jump off.
Off like the lights, in darkness I savour the story.
The thought helps me cope; it’s cathartic and gory.
Green as our youth and the money we pursued.
Both were ephemeral, but in our ignorance we were glued.
True as it may be that we knew all along,
That together we danced, but to far different songs.
The same yellow moon under which we had howled
Mocks me now, as I become older and fouled.
I gaze at the photographs I may never see again;
I’d give up all that I am to have you as my friend.