I made a friend; she was on the verge of bloom, then she got taken up by a big purple balloon. It carried on further than the sky. I only turned away ’cause the sun burned my eyes. All the same, I would go blind just to hear her gypsy voice tell me goodnight. This morning I made two black coffees and pretended she was reading The Times by my side. It’s lonely without her long flowing hair draped over my shoulder, her vanilla perfume mixed in the air. I don’t know how long it’s been— but without her, I am a thousand years older. My mind can’t remember how to paint her face; only my shadow still holds her place. The red apples she picked sometimes roll on the floor and dance against the door at night. I wonder— I forget, then remember— what the serpent said. I am lost in the haze of her Joan of Arc, and these woods remain dark. I long for her balloon to pop, she falls, and it appears like the wind cools my tears. What mask would she be wearing today? Elegant— or just a plain spade? Made worse by the day, pretending to dance in disillusionment in some Broadway play. She’d do it just to watch the fat cats rub their ticket stubs and wait like the good sheep before soiling their seats with false decadence. God gave her at least that repentance before taking her transcendence. So long, Jen. If I see you again, I’ll remember to nod before I grin. Forever till we beat the never, Friend