i miss you
the smirk when you’d teased me
the boyish giggle
the curls on your forehead
i miss your hands
constantly incessantly writing smithing your tales
i miss the weather your shoes and hunters coat
the Italian deli and posing on Kerouac’s road
i miss following you into those portals of City Lights you and i there
when Allen died
i think he became a butterfly
i miss your passions for beauty the people and their pain
i miss Sunday morning sipping coffee at La Boheme thinking of ways to make you love me the way that you loved them
my heart my soul in silent pain it was so much so that i couldn’t see where my place in the world was
i’d like to think it was in all the flowers that you lay your eyes on

for the Parrot