for cyrus

i've never really wanted to talk about cyrus.  i know i wrote of him in an old notebook somewhere, but that was before, and he deserves a better story.

i remember a particularly rainy night when constance was driving him home.  he lived way out in the country, near urbana.  he was in the backseat on heroin.  he was slurring his words, but passionate.  he was telling us to be careful - be careful with the bag he just sold us. always be cautious, don't go overboard, that kind of stuff.  i scoffed at these intoxicated warnings.  of course, i mean, did he know who i was?

     "el, you don't even know.."

he sounded pained, and he had never called me el before, so i figured i'd better listen.

     "i've seen so many people - close friends die.. just lying in my arms, dead, cold..
      blue.  last year, tommy... he was just lying there, just lying there.."

i heard his voice break then, and i could have sworn he was crying, but a woman knows not to fuck with a man's pride, so i didn't look.  he continued.

     "i mean, we were all anxious to get high.. he seemed fine at the time.. i nodded off,
     we didn't know.  he must have somehow shot too much.  he.."

his words faded into silence in the backseat.  cyrus went somewhere else then.  i saw it, his eyes were closing, and peace seemed to wash over him, for merely moments.  it couldn't have been more than three, four seconds tops.

then he was back.  he had tears in his eyes as they re-opened.  just then, we pulled into his driveway.

      "so what i'm saying, el...elly please be careful."

i never saw him again after that night.  i heard he somehow fell in the bathtub while taking a shower.  maybe he went to that other place and his knees gave out from under him, ending his short existence.  or maybe he overdosed and the bathtub story was a weak cover up.

whatever the case, i like to think that he's in that other, more peaceful place permanently, and that he is no longer destined to watch death happen again and again right before his eyes.