At dusk on that dark blue night,
I propped my back against your gravestone
and thought about the infinity
of your death—
it’s just the two of us
again, so speak, don’t be afraid.
The wind an eerie whisper, I’m afraid
you won’t come sit with me under the cover of night.
Time was never kind to us,
but it’s possible we were too stoned
to notice, talking lazily of death,
of how outer space stretched its arms to infinity.
There were times those nights screamed infinity
but under the stars and thin smoke, we weren’t afraid;
our choked chuckles mocked death
our Mother was the night
Her stars precious stones,
held in the sky just for us.
They all called us
futureless; stealing our infinity
and casting the first stone—
you whispered to me in the dark that you were afraid.
Something fell off the shelf inside me that night,
toppling slowly to its death.
On the morning after your death
they called us
all to the auditorium; I was playing McLean’s “Starry, Starry Night”
on my headphones; its four minutes an infinity,
but I didn’t press stop. I’m afraid
that I went out to sit, alone, on the stairs of stone,
to get stoned
alone for the first time after your death.
I turned off McLean, afraid
his words would explain too much about us,
about you, about your race towards infinity,
about your launch into the universe’s starry, starry night.
Stars fall like stones from the night sky.
I sit and wonder if death brought you your infinity.
Maybe if I knew, I wouldn’t be so afraid.