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."