I was talking to him.
He seemed in good mood.
We both had our fair share of whiskey…
I asked him about his journey,
and he said it was full of rain, cold, misfits.
He was sitting opposite to my chair…with a bare chest and grey hairs.
I asked him about his woman…
he said he had one; many years back…he couldn’t remember the name…but he talked a lot about her ass and her smile.
I got it…he lived in his romance…
Suddenly he started talking about freedom…
and the way we all lose it by craving it more.
His eyes rattled…the hands started shaking…he knew he had to die first to kill me.
The night seemed on the verge of being surreal…
When you die you call your poetry the stars…the unpredictable, ruthless and most romantic stars.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Kenton Yoder.