You

I read your poems in a book,
poems about beautiful islands,
sunsets, dreams, trees, shades.
You were known, no doubt,
spent time with the other knowns
of the city,
far less talented though.
Talented to write songs
enough to make teenagers cry.
You hung around
fell in love many times
heartbroken as many times
But in the meantime,
we wrote.
Though I'd never seen you.
Not that I was alone.
I had my pleasures, my poison.

Your talent, your poems
were getting darker.
We still wrote, you read.
We never met, never touched, just craved
In the meantime,
you were getting your heart broken in the city,
of soul suckers.
One rainy sunday,
I got a letter from your friend
that you had died, jumped into the river
and with you all your beautiful poems sank,
the islands sank
the sun sank
trees, dreams sank.