Among the papers that I’ve kept to remind me of who I was, I found a story, and almost wept. Not that it was sad, just…because. Because it stirred a time so bright when this was like respiration, autonomic, just sit down and write, instead of wheezing desperation. The open vein has run its course, I can find nothing left to bleed. When you were my art's driving force, of these banal rhymes I had no need. Perhaps the old I shouldn’t see if all they did is bring more pain. Maybe I should just reinvent me, and tap some imaginary vein. No, you could tell it wasn’t real, and more fraud than ever I’d be. So I’ll just tap the scars I feel, a roadmap to my heart, maybe. I’m not that same man, no longer, but a poet of love and light still. I cheated his death, now I’m stronger. Just need time, my life to refill. If I recall, a sorta-kinda translation of the French phrase “tromp la mort” is something like “cheating death” or someone who does. And it looks like I might’ve done just that.