in his attic.

i had a dream last night that jeff buckley was alive. 

he and i were not lovers but we were friends-very close friends. 

in fact, jordyn and i were at his house the day that he did actually die. 

(in my dream, you see)-

he was alive and beautiful as ever.

he wore a flannel red shirt and black jeans, his white undershirt was stained by coffee that he had had the night before. 

he was wearing some sort of leather necklace and his wrists were strong. 

i remember holding them in some brief embrace-where he grabbed my arm to look me in the face and say

"thanks for coming over you guys-

i just didn't want to be alone tonight. 

let's go hang out in the attic and listen to Indian records-I have so many new ones that I think you will enjoy".

and we climbed up the ladder (he, jordyn, and I) and sat in a room with candles and carpet and Fateh Ali Khan and lied down on our backs and watched the ceiling. 

I was not high.

He wanted to be. 

Jordyn was silent-all crystal eyed. 

After a few hours, we had to go downstairs. 

I don't care to recall what happened next but in the end, he was gone and 

i woke up crying because it felt like death all over again.