Dear Old Friend

a postcard

Dear Old Friend,

“Wish you were here,” 

isn’t that what people say when apart?

Ghosts of your gray eyes dance around me.

There’s not a step I can take on the grass 

that doesn’t sound of your wild laugh and

feel of your hug that snuffed out the cold

that fall midnight stroll. Between the rows 

of books you’re on the carpet cross-legged. 

I stand in the middle of my room in the dark, 

and I can still feel your lips on my forehead,

that very last time I’d ever see you. The air 

has finally lost its tickling uncertainty. The 

trees have calmed after that long wind swept

through them torturously that winter - 

though almost bare, it will be spring soon 

and they will grow new leaves to survive. 

Did the storm pass through the palms, too? 

Still, a little breeze passes through my hair. 

I think of you and remember the good things. 

I’m coming home soon and fear crossing paths.

I used to wish on every star just to see you again, 

but an acid river belches below our old bridge, 

a treacherous stretch that begs not be crossed, 

separating us as we stand on opposite sides. 

I watch from the other side like I always did, 

just to know you’re okay.

I wish for you only the best.