By J.S.
Date: 23 April 1999

The W

I can't listen to The Doors
not anymore
He got me into The Doors - and he was my door
of perception - he was Sagittarius, like Morrison,
and a singer with phenomenal control of words
he said I was his Pam - a (somewhat) redheaded witch, but without the drugs.
He towered over me, 6'3" boy with black black hair and red streaks;
bright blue eyes and thin lips, long fingers that seemed to always hold a cigarette.
He wanted me to share my first acid trip with him and his acid lips - 
He shocked me, he let me hold him, and he held me the way I wanted to be held, 
without having to ask.
Amazing.
He knew me so well.
I never spoke of him much, and to those I did, their knowledge is limited - 
I never told them the truth.
I guess I loved him - love has become such a blurred line I'm not too sure of it anymore.
I know he loved me.
He walked out of a dream to snap me out of the shell of pain in my reality; has it already been so long?
It has.  It smells of one year all over it.
A pathetic pattern that holds to me like the smoke that clung to him, clings to him -
almost a year - 
the words echo in my head and throw me into anxious paranoia.
It has been one year.
He was improbable.
He was perfect.
He's gone.