I see him, sometimes, there.
The doorway where he left me that night.
Golden paint chipped, garish.
He’d always promised to paint it.
But I knew he never would.
He liked the way the flecks offset the finish. He said it reminded him of
The day we met.
It reminds me of the day he died.
The cold, crackling ice which crumbled beneath his hands.
I begged him not to jump into the cold abyss.
He told me underneath the river was Paradise. A solid gold like I preferred.
I told him the LSD had burned three symmetrical holes in his brain.
But he didn’t even recognize me anymore. He asked me my name.
I told him I was his husband. I told him he loved me. That I loved him.
I did love him.
That is why I waited, for hours, for him to come up for air.
It is Summer.
The flowers bloom gold and I am still waiting by the creek.
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