It was a cold November evening, but you shone with the iridescence of an early August moon. I remember our first meeting, I was stricken, and fate gnashed its teeth at our feet as we ran up the stairs. Much time later, you got to tell me, how you grabbed the door handle of the car that bounced off and shattered your leg. Your voice was haunting, and filled with emotion. Since then, you said, you didn't drink. I thought you were strange, a sweet talking southern boy, up here in all the wind and snow. You thought I was amazing. True, I was never tiring, and always going, but far from amazing.
You offered me a field of poppies, my favorite flower, a blender, and all the things I had always wanted. But most of all, I wanted the poppies. And I wanted you. You sat with me late nights, and laughed with me in the glittering snow, and offered, "Hush," when I laughed at you during a snowball fight, while you talked to your girlfriend on the phone. We never spoke much, but whispered through amber eyes, singing to each other without saying a word. I got high off your touch, and drunk off your taste, the smell of cooking in the morning.
You were so awkward and tall, with such finesse and passion for life. There was something about your smile, I'll never forget, and the way you smelled in the morning; fresh like sleep. Your disheveled hair reminded me of wheat fields, and the night you couldn't see the stars before you left, I wish you could have. Every time I seem them now, shining so menacingly, I lose a little more of myself and I hope you find me. Look at them. They're out there somewhere.
Every morning when I wake up, tangled in the sheets, without you here, being your usual adorably clumsy self, I wonder if I am on your mind. And every time I pour a drink, that bittersweet southern discomfort, I think of you. I think of how you didn't drink. I think of how, I don't remember hearing us fall down. Did our ashes leave a trace? Did it make you sad to see my face? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you'll be coming back, whether on traces of clouds, or fruits of earth.
Tell me that you'll always be my Southern Comfort. The sweet solstice in your honey brown eyes will never be found anywhere else. Melt me with your whiskey warm.
Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you'll still be my Southern comfort. Tell me you're mine.