You tipped your hat. A grin. A smirk. Your age completely vanished. Or maybe that was a wish for mine. You were a summer, an odyssey, an heirloom, everyone’s all at once. We took our breath in, you grew. We let it out, you grew. Knowing, way-finding, and great. Such expectation, such tempered grace. There was solace. Grief everywhere, grief vanished. We were doused in purple.

My joy is like your strut. Evolved, jilted, my own. Your stage, I wonder, your home or your torment. Which songs did you love, which ones did you loathe? The ridiculous interrogation. If time here is brief, what moves do we make? Wide grin, heel toe, heel toe, waggle of the hips, shake of the finger. Chest puffed. Dad danced. Shiny, glowing, purple.

In truth I might long to have your life, in truth not all of it, only the part I’ve made up. The last bit, seemed, other worldly. The selfishness in that obscene. But you appeared to see, to feel, to write. You danced. An impeccable inner world animated to the best of life by brothers. Kissing on lips, lingering in embraces, knowing when the rest had no clue. You must have felt pain. Common as it is. I think, yes?, you wrote about it. Words deep and pressing, yet always angled up, or was that the role of your kin? You puffed our chests, sparkled us purple.

I would like to believe you are somewhere else now. I would like to believe I could do all that. Belief sits out of grasp. I wish you could grab my cheeks, look in the eye, confer, lead, and attend. The selfishness in that obscene. I was once on your bus. I had no clue, nor did you, nor did they. No one did yet. Now though, crystal water clear. I want to write how you dance. No care but all intention and attention. Turn the dust violet, throw glitter across the page, colour my words purple.