I have an image of you in my mind—
almost a snapshot, really.
You're scratching your head, grinning,
your broken-innocence dreams
not as broken as we thought.
There is a twinkling of laughter in your eyes
even as you blush,
even as your leg cramps up.
You were the luckiest man alive,
having loved, having lived,
having lost and learned and dreamed.
Your naïve moments like a
candle lighting the way down
a long and winding road
not of your choosing.
And your moomba magic
managed, somehow, to communicate all of
the important things…
like how a man can live with this much love,
and how another man can live without it.