Danny,
come back to us.
I am in the garden of Gethsemane,
ten years later,
with a photo of your sister
and all man's sorrow.
I am waking too early in the morning
with dew upon my lips
balanced on the branches,
starlings behind my eyes.
I am on the road to Jerusalem
with sores under my toes
cancer in my lungs
and a conceited hope of healing.
Danny,
for godsake return.
Fer fucksake,
please.
We do not want to die
because we remember
there was something
we were meant to do.
There was something you were just about to say.