Monday, April 11, 2005

To a Friend who has Lost Himself

You wondered, asked
Why is it worse?
That nagging heartsickness,
The feeling
You are missing a vital organ.

You’ve been left before,
And done the leaving. You tool,
You think it’s all the same.

But I’m wiser than you,
I know more than you, I am older,
And I tell you that it hurts more
Because you haven’t been blown apart.

You’ve grown apart.

And the person you’re missing
No longer exists.

You are not missing her
My oldest, dearest friend.

You are mourning the dead.


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