when someone great is gone

Paging, Mr. JW Deville...where are you?

You were last seen dancing with me at the Beauty Bar, you and I amidst a flurry of chaos and spilled beer and skinny jean havin' indie kids. We danced ardently, until sweat formed on our upper lips, dizzy, lustful, not caring that we were the only ones on an empty dance floor.

You were once spotted at my doorstep, holding an uncooked chicken and a large pot. You came over to make me chicken soup from scratch because I was sick. This does not account for the numerous times you cooked for me at your home, the endless bottles of wine consumed, our noses shoved into our glasses, trying to detect traces of oak or truffles or sometimes even pepper.

Earlier sightings entailed sharing a Bronx pizza, with you eating a piece of ricotta cheese out of my lap, our laughter resonating off my plaster walls. You were caught giving me a piggy-back ride or two, and you were even sighted playing ghetto paddle ball with me in an abandoned parking lot. All the movies we attempted to watch but never finished. The way you held me when I found out Ron was gone. You pushing me on the rickety swings at the park off Adams Ave. Our racy game of twister. The ceaseless tickling matches. The time we listened to Jane's Addiction records while lying on your apartment floor.

There were many sightings of you on Sundays, which served as our designated day of indulgence. Sleeping and lovemaking made up the itinerary, and not much else. One could often also catch you having a cozy breakfast for two, late into the afternoon. Sundays were comprised of pure ecstasy. Drinks and laughter and not a care in the world. The sun would shine on you as you lay peacefully next to me, drifting into a lucid dream.

You were even seen pushing me out the of the way when some prick in a Mercedes Benz almost ran me over in the Henry's parking lot. You almost got into a fist fight with him, especially after he made fun of your favorite Flossy D sunglasses. Then you made me bacon and eggs.

Long back there had been a Mr. Deville sighting on my living room floor, you helping me with my Shakespeare homework, reading the part of both Lysander and Demetrius in A Midsummer Night's Dream. You had even helped me bullshit my way through a 7 page paper, staying up with me until 5am. To make up for it, I read Ginsberg to you in bed when you were sick. I kept reading even after you were asleep, just in case you'd wake up.

You'd been spotted with me sitting on the barstools in your kitchen, your hand in mine, our fingers interlaced. Your turn tables blaring Wolf Parade, before the sun rendered it unplayable. Not a word was exchanged. We'd stare at each other, searching desperately for something we didn't know. Your eyes spoke to me then, they probed my soul. The tenderness in your shining eyes. They searched me. Thoroughly. They would continue to search me for about a month or so. Eventually they gave way to quiet. Your calm eyes ceased to search. They'd found what they were looking for.

There has been a declined number of sightings these days. Where is Mr. Deville? Is he gone? Is he lost? Is he in hiding? Has he departed prematurely? Will he ever return? His eyes don't speak to me these days, they don't search, they don't question, they don't shine. No hopes, no dreams, no resources. Where is the happiest man alive?

Your eyes are vacant, Mr. Deville. Your eyes are cold, dishonest. The shiny, luminous being that was both so candid and elusive has gone. The purity in your eyes has been clouded over with pain and fear. Once electric and terrifying, you'd forgotten, forgotten who you want to be, what you want to be. You've extirpated what you felt, just so you could feel again. You're dying for something to live for. You can't help but fade away. An errant heart, a restless soul, an ephemeral love. I will forget you as you wish, Mr. Deville, but I will never forget who you once were, and neither will you.