Content Warning: Mention of Death
Neons and City of Night
left me starry-eyed and then
BAM you arrived like you'd
just stepped off the page,
skin for skins, blond and
golden, alias London,
bathed in your own
personal spotlight, dancer-
lean arms laced with scars.
Blue eyes at times haunted
though oft still dazzling.
Years later, once I thought
you'd slipped off the grid
beyond all hope of contact,
I showed a friend an old
black and white of you
in a cemetery just to prove
I'd once known someone
as lovely as James Marsters'
Spike on Buffy.
But today I found out
for years you may have been
one mutual friend away
from us reconnecting. And
now you're gone forever.
I remember sneaking out to
see The Crow with you on
opening night, oversold so
our whole group ended up
lying on the floor in front of
the front row. You wore a
black mesh shirt and leather
jacket, every bit as badass as
Eric Draven. Have you since
met Brandon?
No more swapping stories,
no apology for the time I
kissed you goodbye when
you were too plastered to
know it was me, no
introducing my daughter, she
would've been five or six when
you died. I've been through
a lifetime in the interim years,
but it would've been nice to
say hello again instead of
just goodbye.