there is something mystic about how you held your cigarette and smiled at me with soothing turquoise eyes and a twinkle in your tone the mere idea of your touch floods me in places that i cant mention while the lilies stand alone in glasses full of wine i still think of you at dawn and how you made me woman through your arms and your voice and your dreams and your thoughts i was every femme fatale sans the silver screen a dress up doll knitted in the silk of your tongue remember your company’s party we were better than the real Rick and Ilsa when did time go by Charlie now the moons have passed and people descend lower into madness and love is threatened by my not finding my place without you my Black Flag to your Rolling Stones my Smiths to your CCR but we both liked Kurt Weill and we both loved making love and greasy fries afterwards longing is hell am i that bad as to have lost you “he’s up in heaven so i’ve got to be good” every now and again i see your pea green fedora staring at me and it says ‘mornin, angel’ with that Indiana twang