Thank God you haven't died yet
because then I would have to face myself
and memory and reinvent you, a predestined
tragedy, a hero, and write about cycles
and immortal moments instead of
how the new apple blossoms smelled tonight
on School street, how I'm suddenly noticing
small children everywhere and they're all happy,
how beautiful life is even with all the terrifying things
that happen every day, and with you,
how nothing is as important as the air you breathe,
and keep breathing.

Thank God you haven't died
because then we'd have to admit to your mother
we saw it coming, we saw it running
towards us four years ago, your black hole
clothed in light, in frivolity, in scorn,
and we admired you through this, fearful
in the knowledge that somehow you would fall into
yourself, on purpose,
and how could we explain that?

How can I explain I am grateful you haven't died yet,
you who I love like water and reach towards,
even while swimming in your mind's own movement you claim
I am not fluid, I am hastily strung together
as if by writing me this letter
you'll stay glued, tied
to stone and sea by friendship alone.
How can I explain the pain of responsibility
for the affection you have left me
and the future neither of us own?