Hey Sweetheart

He called me Fubar.
I held it endearing.
With complete acknowledgment
of its meaning.

He wrote in all caps
cuz he couldn't write in cursive.
He was cynical at best.

He always carried around coffee.
Coffee and cigarettes.
And sunglasses.

He usually wore a Harley Davidson shirt.
But never owned one.
I never even saw him ride.

He had eagles everywhere.
Made of porcelain.
Painted over mountains.

He owned a million cars.
We painted models when
I was little.

He embarrassed me with country music
and short cut off jeans.
And said I sang like Reba.

He wouldn't let me cut my hair
I did when he left.
Grew it out when he came back.

Few friends knew of him to most
he was a figment of my imagination.
Words never brought him up.

He went to rehab and left early
they found him in a bar of course.
Drinking soda.

He had blue eyes.
But I had brown.
We didn't look like him.

I write this on a cheap pad
with frozen fingers.
My left holding the same brand
that slowly killed him.
Irony.

Fourteen months he lay in bed.
One last year without his voice.
I asked to hear 'hey sweetheart'
just one more time. I did.
I should have wished for more.

He showed me that miracles
existed.

I can talk about him but
with empty words.

They say to let it out but I say
If a car was coming at you
would you let it hit you
or get out of the way.
Logic forces me to the curb.

Cuz he's gone and

Now he's the painted eagle
soaring over painted mountains.