So long, old friend,
I can still see you walking away
so many years ago now, cinematic and soft,
you remembering colors, I remembering words.
There are pale comparisons and
skin paler than yours and
we haven’t sat down to drink
since all ourselves have died and regrown
but keep the tea coming and the stress eating
and someday I’ll see you in your drinking pants again,
the ones that used to fit,
blue–green and one-size-fits-all,
when you were a size,
and I could taste your words.
I’ve never written more than one story and this is a part of it.
– February 21, 2016