writing me letters
full of songs, poetry.
I imagine him in his cell,
face illuminated by light-sliver,
the memory of the songs we used to sing—
Why do I keep fuckin’ uuup? and
Bluuue, why don’t you stay behind?
coiling, like smoke, thick,
choking the cold bars.
We have no comfort for each other,
like two crucified thieves with no Jesus
between. I see his letters, words
scattered in a black ocean,
ink running, briefly suspended,
then, sinking. Lost forever
in dark water.
Will he even be home if he comes home?
Will any of us, old friends?