milo bled to death after being stabbed 7 times. a homeless no one died February 2, 1997. i dream about him sometimes. i can see his face so clearly, cheekbones defined, edges of curves shaping together to form a nose, wide lips, his eyes and mouth look a little too big because he has never been fed right and is forever thin, despite his muscles, his arms, the twitch of his skin as i lightly touch the inside skin of his arm, tickling, i see scars there, needle marks , old pain old old his eyes are so old for 17 years. only sometimes, though. he is laughing, smiling, dancing with me, telling stories, fidgiting with the cuff on his jacket whenever he is somewhat nervous. a little habit i notice. i remember the play of the fading sunlight on his face while we sit on the docks, water from the old, huge river, dirty lapping on the shore somewhere near. he runs a hand back through his bluish blackish, light at the very tips hair, shaved into a mohawk, but down now on this particular day at this moment, strands running softly through his fingers. he always does that when he laughs really hard. he would hum sometimes at night as we were about to fall asleep, his arms around me, i can smell the leather of his jacket near my cheek, small metal studs i play with while he talks or sleeps. patches sewed on with sewing kits stolen from walmart, the needle making his inexpert fingertips raw and red from pressing through the leather. but worth it still so now i can lie here, picking softly at a loose edge. dead kennedys, op ivy, clash, ramones, too many to name, but i can see them so clearly. on his shoulders when he picked me up, carrying me piggy back through the french quarter, laughing as the tourists gaped at us. we went to madame v's voodoo shop & talked to the madame herself & she told me my fortune for free from one friend to another. a huge, dark woman, wrapped in colors so many colors, but beautiful scarves and a huge flowing fabric of a dress, her hands smooth when she took mine, dark dark eyes and looking in them, i was certain that she did, in fact, know. "cherie," she called me, her speech speckeled with french, mixed in with an island dialect. her eyes turned sad when she looked at my friend, his blue eyes drowning in hers and she played it off, laughing, focusing on the present. i remember that and i wonder if she knew somehow. and in a way, i think he did , too. but then the moment would be past, and turning, we'd look at her new potions and dolls, then we'd leave, madame v hugging first me then milo, him kissing her on the cheek.