He shook with small blades of grass

for a millisecond,

like he was slow dancing

with a dream.  

Our eyes locked

misty-white,

vacant.

When I got to him

a red-tinged hue of departure

had already taken him.

I pulled a tattered letter from his fingers,

the one he asked me to read before

fratricide cut him to his core.

His woman

moved like myth:

I decided I loved her.  

I would find her,

to love her

like he did.

The night hovered cold again,

the distant clanking of disgruntled

bodies in C block fomenting fantasy,

flying through prison gates and landing

flush into tranquility.

I pulled the letter out again

and smelled the pen strokes.

I would dream like the others tonight.

I would fly too.