Here Ya Go, P

I've been getting lots of little "messages" reminding me of a dearly departed someone. I think the most ostentatious was a pair of glasses for alcohol (I'm not sure if they were for beer or what. No, I guess it doesn't matter.) bearing his full name. Apparently he's a restaurant in New Orleans. Or was. Anyway, I'm not up for writing, but I thought of this piece that I wrote for him back when he read my stuff on The Space. The date it was last edited? Exactly two years before his murder four years ago. I can't even bring myself to read it, but here it is. You come to me in the night, silently waiting outside my door.  I feel your presence and step out into the full moon-lit air.  The night is hot and still.  The dew is on the grass and my bare feet get wet as I reach out to grab your hand.  Shyly, I raise my eyes to meet yours.  I can see my intentions mirrored in your eyes. You are holding a blanket, and we walk with you leading the way, but only barely.  The meadow is empty except for the fireflies.  Most have gone to sleep, but a few still flicker here and there in the air.  The small stream running through the meadow provides the only noise besides the sounds of our feet.  You spread the blanket, and sit, silently inviting me to join you.  Gingerly, I sit next to you.  Close, but not too close.  http://starmatt.com/gallery/astro/fireflies.jpg You lean over to kiss me and the slow sweet pace of the kiss barely masks the intensity behind it.  We recline in each other's arms, still kissing.  Our passion builds, as slowly, we begin to undress.  Our eyes never leave each other as we spend the rest of the night giving into our passion, until the birds begin to chirp. Slowly, reluctantly we dress, fold the blanket, and give a few lingering kisses.  We walk back to my door, where you slip away unwillingly, my eyes following you until you are out of sight.  Softly, I go inside, lean on the door and begin to cry.