You are the elusive radio station I can’t quite tune in, the musky scent of shadow in the sweet cologne of thunderstorms.
Your name shudders like a passing ghost on the rim of every beer, a phantom memory tenuous on my fingertips.
And like some patient sniper in camouflage, you wait at the end of each new labyrinth – the only means of escape would make me your victim.
But I have never cared much for your music, and fragrances irritate my skin.
And while at times I may be homicidal, I have never considered suicide (at least not for myself).
So remember that I didn’t quite ask you for your secret, didn’t shake a magic eight ball to come up with the question.
I was just some starving artist headed out for coffee and cigarettes when you made me a sandwich of promises and moonlight.
And now your memory has entered my soul and it is too late for me to forget you.