I don't know why he did it.

Why Greg just decided one day
that the thing to do was to
take a rope, attach it to
the rafters of the attic
and hang himself.

In Spring, no less, when
the last thing we want
is to think about the cute
kid one street over hanging
from his neck in the middle
of the afternoon.

I remember thinking how odd.
I'd met him once, up at Crystal
Beach, in a small summer cottage
rented by the people next door.
I went up that year, with
nothing better to do, since
popularity was scarce,
(scarce isn't the word really,
non-existant better).

He was laying on the couch across
the room from me. Caught in a moment
of reflective thought, he told me
all his dreams, all his aspirations
and fantasies, while
I watched the constant tapping
of his fingers on his thigh,

and thought, how light his touch must be.

I was hypnotized by this handsome
young man, who spoke in a deep
yet hushed voice of his life to
me. I listened, and watched,
his hands and voice all I remember
about that lazy summer day.

When it happened, I thought,
no, that can't be true. Not him.

The substance now of so many sweet
erotic fantasies. The handsome brooding
youth who stole my heart in one
afternoon took his life, leaving
the world now with an empty space
where his dreams once found a place.

I wish now, looking back, that I
had taken his hand in mine that day,
held it softly in my own
passing warmth in a touch
and told him that life needed time
to realize a dream, a lifetime
long and full and complete, but
the dreams, they will come true.

And maybe, just maybe....

WhiteRose