To an Old Friend

If I were to pass you by on some mischance,

I would introduce myself with a British accent.

I’d say that I lost a bet.

I may come back next time with a Cowboy accent, but no worries.

I probably lost another bet.

Kid, I’d say, are your socks worn in?

Cause mine are too.

I’d like to believe that that is a valid reason to be friends.

Nomads come in packs, it’s a bittersweet given.

Then, maybe,

I’d give you a pink umbrella.

I’d take you outdoors during a rainstorm.

I’d ask you to strip yourself of all forbiddens and bewares.

Wear an insignia that is prohibited.

Climb a tree and hold it up to the lightning.

Let it strike you.

If you fall, you fall.

Laugh at the pain.

Because there is nothing more amusing than the laws of nature being mischevious.  

And if you die, well, you die.

But at least the lightning knows now.

And the universe will act upon it with the same grace.

Trust me, the skies would be found anew the next morn.

I’d give you a yellow ruler.

I’d tell you, this world is a tenant’s land, but do not cry.

Be not concerned with the what, but with the why.

Laugh again.

If you ask,

Why should we laugh?

I’d say shut up.

But really, we should laugh at the fact that we’ll probably never know why.

It’s funny how we keep trying.

Don’t forget, the farewell is always the opportune time to question the story.

And to snicker at the nonsensicality that is life.

So, always say farewell.       

But come back the next day.

I’d give you a black cello.

Fool, I’d say, to know, you have to want to break, be broke, and break.

But be broken more than you break.

It’s fate.

It teaches that tears are not only made in grief.

Oh, I almost forgot.             

When I bid goodbye, smile.

It’s easier to sleep when the night ends the way the day began.

It makes it simpler to remininsce about all that I’ve taught.

I’d leave an almanac if I could.

But instead, I’d probably leave a deformed origami swan and this:

In writing and in life, I find jest to be the happening of every apparent absence, a risk or a gamble.

In the midst of it all,   

It weaves its own story.

‘Til time permits old friend. 

Author's Note

Criticisms?