#14

He was forgetful of his origin, created from pen and paper, left in writing except when called for. A figment of the mind, no phusis. Less given than a dream, adequate without profile. The coat rack, the milk container - all so much being, having known without him. Erased in every clearing. History without decision. I named him Lucas, and made him my friend.

"Ludic," Lynda said, and accepted. She did not dispute him nor know him, but in flashes. That summer, when the branches hung low as sex organs.

Lucas, who walked with me that day to the clinic, a trail of make believe in tow. Who gave me his hand as death circled. Your blonde, your gray, the white of snow through the window where you were born. Paragraph three. The unbleached page left open, as you ran among the trees I did not mention. And later, the secret you hid for me: a spell for Blake on Valentines'. Oh, Lucas don't forget me! For I haven't forgotten you. Your innocence ever a beacon. Never my mark. But Lucas! Your difference indescribable.