Drunken Banter

Sometimes, our past comes back to haunt us...

The boy spoke softly
his cherry lips
rendered me completely helpless
and as I staggered towards the light
I could not rid myself
of the broken player
stuck on a vinyl of his gentle words.
I finally reached the illuminated doors
-bathed in the harsh glow
of the red exit sign above them-
and stumbled into the alleyway.

I didn't know where I was,
and frankly, did not care.
It was night and the street was empty.
The boy followed me
his steps unwavering
trailing my drunk meandering.

I don't know who he was
or who he is
and only truly know
that he evoked from me
such sadness as I had not yet known.

The boy was dead,
my memory is now a poem,
my poem a eulogy.