When I was 22 I felt invincible.
Like nothing could touch me
or so I thought.
The distress of my youth had melted
away and once again I was as
carefree as when I was a child.
How you felt I can only guess.
Less than awesome I suppose.
A lifetime of lovely memories and
hard times informed you, but never
dimmed your disposition.
You were 89 and felt painfully mortal
even if you were godly to those
who knew you and loved you.
I was in the springtime of my youth
hungover with the overflowing spirits
of life and art and love.
It was a Sunday like any other for you,
but in the winter of life a sun was rising
for the last time in your deep hazel eyes.
I was enjoying the aftermath of an orgy
for the senses, echoes resonating deep
in the recesses of my mind.
You were enjoying your typical morning ritual
of black coffee and a good book.
We were both unaware of what was coming next
for either one of us.
And as you slipped out of your chair and
your book fell to the floor I'm sure
their eyes fell upon you. The eyes of your peers
and best friends who saw your face go blank.
The smile that lit up a thousand rooms and the
mind as sharp as a sword had taken it's final bow.
They saw in you themselves. Their own fate,
already written, a final curtain yet to be drawn.
So as I returned from the conquest none the wiser
I was high upon my pedestal of happiness.
Nothing could prepare me for the news or
the devastation and numbness to follow.
A jolt to the heart, sucking the air out of me.
Only the vision of your now vanished smiling face
filling my mind and unchaining my tears.
Targeting the East Village
20 hours ago