Placing Roses at the Grave of Us

i painted a picture of him-

a picture i thought i had painted well,

feeding my aching habit-

blending fantasy and reality.

my boy was sweeter than summer mangoes,

he held me tight under the night sky

and talked with me until the sun greeted us.

my boy was smarter than most,

his head filled with millions of facts.

he could tell you everything there is to know

about psybocilin, jz engines, and economic systems.

my boy died when i opened my eyes-

he was never real despite how hard i tried.