at least i'm not dreaming alone.
gesso up the canvas and sit with me for a while, talking to me about how your sick ego is doing and when you read your first novel. i'll sit indian-style, menu of colors in my lap and brush between my teeth. you can lounge on the bed or spin in my computer chair. i don't give a damn as long as you're smoking my brand. company never bothered me before; we're all a work in progress anyway.
a train will go by about a block away, and the windows will rattle from the bus going by. my cats will join us for a bit before they're off for their hijinks. i'll put on the tom waits, and we'll smile lightly like we used to without all of this between us.
watch me bring that heart he kept securely attached to his wallet chain to life, just a touch of gray but mostly crimson.
look how i catch the humor and cynicism of his eyes with a chocolate brown and small specks of bronze. and see this shade of purple? yeah, the one that looks like black until i spread it out ... doesn't that remind you of how he made you challenge everything?
the ashtray will be full through another couple of cigarettes, and we may need another round. put on whatever you want, this song's almost over.
hey, do you remember that poem he wrote for me? no, well, it was as orange as my hair but much more vibrant. i'll put his courage with the black of his spiked hair, and his constant hypochondria in yellow smoke around his eyes.
yes, indeed, what about his way with words? well, i could try this green, but i think it's a bright wash of blue that would really do the trick. the lime green will probably bring out his wit. it'll go well with that silver spark of his father that shines from his fingertips of his left hand.
there will be leftovers in the fridge and another late night with my eyes growing dry. i know you'll stay until i'm finished, and we can laugh at the people just waking up.
ah, and every woman that ever met him was in love with him for at least sixty seconds. we'll use precise lines of peach and white surrounded by his golden freedom. and his bedroom manner, straight red that keeps on moving.
it'll look pretty good from where i sit, and i won't be done yet. it needs something else. my cigarette ash will drop and stick to that aqua i used for his loyalty to friends we've always had.
i'll be yawning and catching light with my mind, and you'll probably fall asleep on my floor, a cat napping on the small of your back.
ivory and ebony and a string of flamingo pink for whimsy, just in the corner there ... where he kept his cute voice just for me. lilac and midnight blue for his lashes which he could only ever bat for his mother. and a touch of pearl on his lips, just to let you know that he's grinning for his brothers and sisters. a dot of plum right in the palm of his hand for how he loved me, and we'll be done.
how long will i have been asleep before i realize that my body is shaking, and how long before i know that it was all a dream? when did i wake up, and when did reality scratch my pupils? he was here for the night, and so were you.
but my paintbrush is dry.
my canvas is still blank, and you're still in california.
