Two Years Later

 

I told a story about you the other day. It was more beautiful

not to say you were dead. I spoke your name as if new tales

of you were still developing, as if you’d undergone more

haircuts, more nights, more cups of coffee. You don’t speak

to any of us anymore; you’ve turned boys I knew into men

with your photograph on the wall. Two years later, you’re still

the best-looking person in the room full of faces I’ll never see

again, though the image of your arm slung around  the neck

of a friend, the other hand  holding a drink or drumming on

the nearest table, is as near as breath to the body, even nearer.