More Than a Clue

They say the dead live in the memories
of those left to grow, to change what at first seems impossibly
remote, that this ambivalent wish to die
while at the same time, a rescue plan, the one
where I rush to hold your hand, to tell you I understand why,
then I stay by your side and howl or maybe it will catch
me by surprise like the time The Angels sang "Am I Ever
Going To See Your Face Again?" It was late.
I was tired. I was too tired to sleep and it wasn't a drowning
dream. It was your voice breaking, your voice
and heart aching too late to take your tendency to escape
back into my arms so I could stroke your hair or lick
the sweat, do anything for the taste of when you were beautiful,
when you were true instead of watching you with the morphine
you chased harder and faster than any girl you fucked.
They say the dead live in memories of those left to clip
their toe-nails or to wash their clothes, to be ordinary
and decent while in other scenes delving deep into every day
until your suicide means nothing is removed
from the strength that is mine when I smile.