She's A Tear That Hangs Inside My Soul Forever
I walked to my window in the grey gloaming and my eyes were drawn to the rivulets of rain as they meandered slowly downward. Everything lost...everything gone. Anna Nicole.
The inexorable tug of time wearies my every sinew. The days stretch like a million sentences of death and I strain to bear even the very first. Anna Nicole.
I remember a time when we were young and ferocious, Anna Nicole and I, two feral lovers pitted against a hostile world. I try to stem the flow of brutal, stinging memories. The long nights at Joe's Bar in Prague, those endless, paragorical, velvet summer reveries. And I remember even to the day we met, when I offered her my seat on the Red Line in Rue de France, intoxicated by her subtle ballet, her studied little-girl aloofness.
Yes, giants walked in those days. Giants ate the world in great gulps of red and white and green. Swarming human pestilences advanced across the globe in arcing, malevolent clouds and we stood the best we could, all of us. We stood and gave as good as we got and it was a good time and a dangerous time to be alive but we had our love. And I had my Anna Nicole. Many of us have fallen and I raise my goblin, bejeweled and sweating, to all of them, God knows. All of them.
But I, I shall never sleep again. I shall never laugh again. And were I to retrace our steps in my memory, through the tiny streets of Belhorizonte or across the town square in Leipzig where Fiodor took that rain of bullets for us in '54, surely I will weep and never stop. Berlin, London, La Plata, Reykjavik. Palos Verdes. Tegucigalpa. Istanbul. So many places I can never again
see lest the grief of losing Anna Nicole should overcome me and kill me as sure as any slow, fatal consumption.