I type you,
the way you
were,
not the way
I wanted you
to be.
I type us,
the fading
dream of us,
and though
I know we
once died
and disappeared
from this earth,
yes,
we won't
ever die,
nor disappear
again.
Sometimes,
only alone,
when the world
is sleeping,
I raise the dead.
Sometimes,
only late
at night,
and
with no
fear of morning,
I believe in
a God,
and that
he is here
running
through these
otherwise useless
fingertips.
Los Angeles - 3/14/07
