foggy

you were in all black,
your figure taking hold of me
in front of dark shadows.

you're going to San Francisco you say,
you're going to see
Kerouac.
you're going to see everything.

I remember the lightness in your skin
and in your hair,
your face and it's
anxieties.
the art on your walls with
the cleverly drawn mustaches
looking back at me.

you were wearing all black
and you were walking
around the room looking
like heaven.

the Smiths still play on
my radio
but Kerouac is dead.
I haven't written them all off yet.

they sound too good.