there’s a photograph of him in
the foyer leading up to the room,
in which he’s lying,
but i don’t recognize it
‘cause it’s missing his
characteristic smirk and
although his eyes are the same
he looks far too old to be nineteen;
he’s too aged, and weariness replaces the
would-be wisdom in his gold-flecked eyes
like he somehow grew up too fast, and you’d be
hard-pressed to find a good argument that he didn’t.

--

but maybe i just don’t recognize him because
i haven’t seen him up close in over two years
we dodged in and out of each other’s lives
and the last time i saw him, i hid,
afraid of saying the wrong thing or
even more so, of saying nothing when
there is so much that has been left to say.

--

now all i am left with are fragments of the
sentences i had planned to say to him and
the disjointed memories of him and me
together, and these are so few that each one
becomes infinitely more precious, and each one
is specially wrapped up and tucked away just in case
i ever want to remember again because
they’re all i’ll have of him now that’s for keeps.

--

and i’m standing here amongst these people
who knew him and loved him and who meant
the world to him, and i suddenly feel out of place
like i was never really part of his life, and all
those rides home never translated into a friend-
ship but were rather akin to an exhale: brief
and far too meaningless to ever save a human
being, but somehow i think that too must be wrong
because he saved me at one point in my life,
although he never allowed me to return the favor.

--

so, no, i can’t explain why i came to his
funeral when i didn’t even know him
anymore, but maybe i just wanted to affirm
that we had something tangible and real
that we were something more than
what my imagination made of us
that our six-month-long friendship
touched him just as deeply as it
touched me those five years ago
(i’ve always wondered whether he
ever had the same realization that
i had in his arms those years ago
when i figured out that no one
would ever be there the way
he was there for me that day
how no one would ever be
in those perfect circumstances
at the right time, at the right place
to comfort me and hold me and
say absolutely nothing at all
while i cried.
yet all i was able
to ever give him in return
was a wet spot on his t-shirt,
an invitation to lunch,
several awkward instant
messenger conversations,
and years of ignoring
his addiction)

--

i’m sorry that i
let you go so
easily.