He pulled gossamer elephants from the sky as we crushed grass-angels beneath sweat sticky backs. So beautiful. He is so beautiful with that tousled I-just-woke-up hair and shit-eating grin. Rainy days in town we chased distorted reflections down in the wet slick sheen of the water sluiced promenade. I wish he'd change out of that HardRock Cafe shirt; it's all he ever seems to wear anymore. Crisp October evenings we rushed to the State Fair to get sugar sick and spin crazy. I was terrified of heights, but he wasn't. Maybe if I just give him some space... He was William Hung on a bad vocal day, couldn't even find a tune, let alone carry one; hell, he couldn't even carry the bucket! But he sang "Midnight Train to Georgia" and "Friends in Low Places and "Free Bird", lips to the broomstick, inhibitions out the window... out the window. He looks happier than a breast man at a Hooters Grand Opening. He always said we could fly like elephants and angels. I'm so SICK of that stupid shirt! I tried to tell him we don't have wings. I better give him some space. Maybe I'll move the candles. We all thought he was so happy. Oh, God. The photo doesn't do him justice in that light. And he knew all the songs -- all the words to the songs, that has to count for something. Shit. Shit. No, shit. Oh shit -- it's not him. Never was really him with that polaroid smile. Elephants don't have wings either.
