I want to write another poem.
I can feel it in my bones.
And you were standing there.
It was like a Beatles song.
Except neither one of us was dancing.
Do you remember when you were on fire?
How no fire extinguisher could even begin to put you out?
They say to self-combust is not for the faint of heart.
And once I saw you go up in flames I knew exactly what they meant.
The flames licked your body like lemon ice and before long you were gone.
My sawbones are itching to get back into the fight.
Problem is I cannot find the ring and never was much for wrestling with my shirt off.
And you were a dream come true until you became the nightmare I could not shake.
We live inside our most hallowed of poignant memories until memory lane becomes A Nightmare on Elm Street.
I want to write another poem or at the very least give up the ghost before everything has been said and done and doing it no longer makes a fucking difference.