Come back, so I can see your smile. 
 So we can smile with each other. 
 I will never forget your smile.
 When I saw you that first time, 
 running on the track near Winfield Street 
 you made me fly. I smiled at you. 
 You turned around and started running 
 in my direction, “Would you mind running with me?”
 I said, “No, not at all.”
 You told me about a couple you knew 
 who’d been together a long time. 
 Come back.
 I still have the treasured truck your uncle made for you.
 He was good at fixing things and made toys for you
 when you were little.
 You were clever, like your uncle, at fixing things. 
 I’d break something. You’d fix it. 
 One thing you said about me when we met
 Was that I am fair. You were fair, too.
 — always gracious about my years 
 of journeying around the world
 with my travel friend, another man.
 You trusted me completely. 
 You taught me to trust.
 Come back. We’ll have some coffee. 
 We’ll sit in our kitchen and listen to jazz. 
 I remember you opening the door to someone
 —clearly a drug addict— asking for money. 
 You gave him some. No questions.
 You had a kind heart.
 Come back. 
 The rose garden you grew is still here, 
 beyond the kitchen window,
 a lovely place to sit and sing. We loved it. 
 We’ll have some chocolate ice cream. 
 I will sing you the love song I wrote for you.
 We’ll fly like we used to run. 
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