can you come soon?
begged the twenty-year old child
wild and beguiled
with only two months left to live.
my best friend
the girl I sat next to, eight hours a day five days a week,
the girl I watched dance in the passenger seat of my mothers car
for hours as we drove around doing nothing but squeak and gossip and laugh
she wanted me to visit for saint Patricks day
she was missing me and she was missing herself
and months after she died
on her shelf we would find
‘her mind being lost faster than it came
with thoughts exiting as they entered
isolated in her body and trapped in a dream’
these words her own
and dedicating herself to nothing
which would make her happy
this girl that I loved was
lost and lonely
and the only one
who could make me laugh so hard
that I couldn’t breathe
keeled over, stomach in stitches
and only squeaky giggles
while squeezing my hand and holding my soul
to know later, after her last breath
the nights she spent running around
in a night gown and heels
in the winter, banging on her lovers door
wanting to be tainted
and so shortly acquainted
with her fears
in a twist of terrible irony
I found out and I fainted.
with no warning, no closure and no goodbye
there and gone.
forever asking questions
and examining, deconstructing cruel hints
that she left
that you left
but I never saw
“visit this weekend
you have to visit this weekend
Jo, I miss you.
If you don’t come, you’re a bad friend
and she was
and I was
and I never came
there will be no sorry
no answers to the questions which plague my mind
the guilt, keeping me up at night
the dreams, haunting me
there is only silence
I join her
in our final function
as food for things that grow
these seeds of doubt will never amount
to anything, except
an awareness for the private pain
which makes the insane drop hints so subtle
my excuses, are just that, excuses
and she will never hear my rebuttal
and what to do now? there is only the present
so far from pleasant, in my torment kept secret
angry, frustrated, alone
I can only forgive, forgive myself, forgive my friend
forgive the world in its chaos
because in the end, we must transcend
this inevitable tragedy of our existence
but also we must learn not to keep at a distance any necessary assistance
be good to those you love,
lest you regret, and wish for nothing more but to reset
that time you said no
when your best friend wanted you to go
and visit her on Saint Patricks day
Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness
hand, clammy and catching streams, moisture runs through cracks, thick and cold.
hand, clasps and unclasps the railing as she walks, jumps over spaces, airborne briefly and the cool breeze of dusk is felt between her fingers, that flap of skin where finger meets hand exposed only to close as it opens. Hand, back down to railing.
wet sweat still now, opens to the night air, sticking to skin, cooling. the sweat stops as she stops, as she stops and holds the railing, holds the railing with the hand feeling the thick moisture. Night air breathes the sweat on her skin; cooling her head, warming her heart, breath back into her soul.
ears throb, heart pounds. the Giant insider her ears pushes, rhythmically with big feet, throbbing ear drums signal deep breaths, deep breaths bring her heart from her ears back down to her chest.
Exhaling into the night, she looks up at the beyond. eyes smile, hand jumps on railing and the night is felt cold between fingers.
natalie, I miss you terribly.