I Read That You Had Died

I read that you had died.
It took me by surprise.
When I thought about you,
     you were always still alive,
     living a life.
A good life, I hoped.

My fair-haired boy,
     companion of summer nights,
     running naked from headlights.
I put my mouth on you.
I can still feel you, taste you.
I wanted not to stop, but you made me.
Why?
Were you afraid we'd go too far?
     I wanted it (to go too far).
You awakened something in me.

The picture showed a man, but it was you.
     I remember the boy.
     Brown eyes, sharp features, slender.
Such a brave boy; me such a coward.
Your picture did not erase remembrance.
     You will always be young to me.

I thought about you. Did you think about me?
Did you think you should have let me continue?
     Continue tasting you?
     Continue feeling you?
Something in your eyes said, "Maybe."

You starred in some of my stories.
I wish you could read them now.
But you can't, ever.

While you lived in my memory,
     I thought you lived on.
Now that you are truly gone, my memory of you
     is even more special.
I loved you and I didn't know it.
I'll never forget you, Robert.