Disclaimer: You must be joking! I do not own anything to do with them. Sob.
A/N: I must admit, this poem was not solely my idea, it was based on a piece of writing from somewhere, I can't exactly remember where, but I do not mean to offend anybody. This hasn't been beta-ed, so any mistakes are mine, and please review!
You were clueless with me after Boston,
After the wine in plastic cups
And the alleged affair:
Letters and postcards and e-mails postmarked California
Left more questions than answers.
Professer Grissom,
You were frustratingly appropriate
When taking me home
And died at fifty-one.
Gruesome Grissom,
Behind your tearstained yellowed photograph
I feel the pain.
You were alive. You are dead.
You wore dark slacks and deep blue shirts
And drank freshly brewed coffee
To wake you up.
There must be something-
Someone to tell of your quiet dominance,
Your veiled aggression
And the intelligence that pulsed
In the pale concavities of your forehead.
You owe me something;
I was deprived and you were always too close,
Too private, and just a little too late.
I love you, Gil,
Our reluctant souls untied
In our unconventional,
Illegal games of trivia
In the middle of a blackout.
You turned to me
And said
"I have you."
