Headliner
When Spring comes, I will miss you. The way you tuck your shirt into those 'not quite falling' trousers or that James Dean four-fingered hair comb in slow motion, pausing a moment to take notice if an audience has assembled.
I will sit, stirring honey in my tea, clanking the side of my cup, half-expecting a shadow to appear by the kitchen doorframe; tall, lanky silhouette of you to take a bow.
Your obituary shined, like a private marquee.
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