I am envious of the lens that saw him moments before he died–he smiled. kids rolled down hills, their screams were the things of dreams… I tumble and feel wet grass, growing around his gravestone, a place that marks the letter sealed inside. words eaten long ago by worms–scorched on a sidewalk, split in half for the world to see what’s inside him and inside me. Nothing feels right until I watch this tape. I can’t be sure how many times i have been half expecting to see him turn a corner. Instead he floats further down river… I never saw him, I wasn’t there when they pulled him from underneath a bridge after days of searching and seeing dated photographs on the channel 7 news. I didn’t see his smile, we never kissed at all… A picture someone gave me after your funeral makes my fiance jealous, jealous of bones and a seven-year-old-conversation late in the night, one summer I spent home alone.