I want to see you, that sunstruck blond hair, that quarter-smile. I need to be close to you one last time. It feels as if it’s been so long. All we said when we parted was “When are you leaving?” and “Thursday.” You, whom I’d’ve married if it were legal, though marriage is mostly for dullards and idiots. So what. This’ll be it, a final glimpse of those arrowed cheekbones, your face composed as granite. I want to hug you five different ways, kiss you twice, once in an unmentionable spot, take you out to dinner at The Bogue and that off-Broadway show we never bought tickets for, only I can’t because you died a week ago, and now it’s so long.