Introduced, short kid, pudgy, black holes on either side of his nose, loud, sharp, talked a lot and often over me, though I would never let on. Coffee drinker, cigarette smoker, tortured and torturing himself through every action and every inaction. Pot smoker, though never as often as I, and always changed more than I saw myself changing under it. Heavy smoke, smoke changer, afraid to be alone; me too. Awkward sexually in as much as it meets with us socially, the hugs always seemed softer with him, more inhibited, but invited. His finger always waved at some ghost in the smoke that trailed off of his ever unfinished cigarette. His eyes grew as I knew him, but never could have known�the black holes slowly emptying out to show the true demon in the passion of his oceans of knowledge, and free form interpretation that would fit anyone�s emptiness like a quietly humming heated blanket; a deeper blue that bridged on a ripe green hidden under the vast complexity of a choral playground. A companion I had never, and will now ever never travel with except to find him in that broke down and abandoned haunt on the side of this road, which is where all our souls will sleep the good night away. I can see him swinging that door open for me as I wearily mount the steps, dead as ever. He would have a bathrobe on or some crazy night gown with proper slippers and a smoking pipe, just for show. A dog would be with him, and would have been with him forever knowing that it would find no truer master at any other intersection of eternity. He would grin impishly. He would show me the rotting pillows he had collected in anticipation of my final arrival. I would come in seeking friendship, but would find only the horror of the truth of our bond. He would wipe his ass with a thin sheet and throw it at me cackling; reeking with old. He would toss me a half spit micky of some cheap drink I have never heard of that burns like the fires of hell all the way down to where we will finally meet as souls. Leppy�s gone forever. I don�t know what to feel. I have tears right behind my eyes but they are frightened to be seen as they might provoke his howls of laughter from the everywhere where he is now. I don�t know where he was when he did it. I don�t know what was bleeding so fast that he felt he would never clot and heal. All I know are his eyes and smoke and earnest intentions�his passion for pain and enlightenment and acceptance. His freedom he sought so far from my side that I fill never find him in this darkness. I can�t remember if I gave him anything. I have a book and a film of his. I can�t remember and that horrid realization that plagues me all through my scenes is destroying him outside of this written moment.
I am a mess inside, but it is no special treat for your burial. I am a mess inside, and so were you. Vomit. Flush.
In loving memory with more pain to come.�I miss you terribly Andrew Robert James Smith.
LOVE - Tristan
before || after
