The last gasp you left on the wind was hardly enough to be heard when you whispered it, but the echo boomed out to soul-searing proportions. The soft violent melody of an unassuming white girl's blues calls the heat up from beyond all the pieces of my heart that have been told to say nothing and let the storm wear us down as it will. Even when you hated the words, you transcended and forced into them what words alone could never say.

You beat a path through the doors and hallways of what would have nothing to do with you and your veil of scars, you drank it in and stole their wildest women. The secret lies in the continual sacrifice, every hard light morning that paid for the glory of each sweetly inebriated night. Daily suicide led you to that heaven most of us only guess in airplane turn signals, where the words come clean and insist upon the beauty of squalor so that not even the dilettantes can contest it.

God help me, I will fly down this highway forever. I will disappear into the ghosts of your enigma and have a journey for my worship and my tithe. I cannot recreate the stars, and cannot surpass them, but I will trace over again the light with my own colors. Maybe I'll be the only one to see that temporary tint and will go down as a washer of dirty secrets and a shove in someone else's right direction toward genius.

You said what I meant and you said it better. I am content to lie here on your graves, reenact the mistakes and sing along in secret with the devastating truth.