For you, old friend


I find it curious that, in all the marvels of that is which a person, I look at you and see something

much more empty than the rest.

Some anticlimactic expression of what you are supposed to be;

of what I thought

you to be.


The feeling that overwhelms me is ambiguous, to say the least,

but I still find myself left with a clear perception of what is you.

And, I suppose, what is me.

And, I suppose, what we were meant to be. 


As I walk on, as I take these heavy steps forward, I carry the weight of you alongside me.

I walk hand-in-hand with your ghost every day.

Your shadow still comes to my aid when I feel alone.

But still, you are merely

empty, numb, cold.

Barely leftover from once before; slipping farther away as your shadow grows darker in the peripheral vision of my every move.


Bit-by-bit, though, I am learning—growing into what will become my true self.

A transformation in which you will lift my steps up.

One where you will still be bleak and distant but will be a vibrant part of my past.

Past—a place you will stay until the warm graze of laughter sparks up 

your memory in a calmly chaotic whirlwind of gossip between friends in the early hours of the next morning.

Or when the cup of hot coffee, resting between blue knit gloves, is tipped and consumed to warm my belly as casual remarks and reminiscence pass between old friends back in town for the holidays.  


But no longer will you carry your emptiness into my life.

No longer will your frigid touch bring the merciless cold into what has now become the new me:

a me who doesn’t let you live

alongside me.

A me who has lived

through you.

A me who has not only outgrown you

but has grown from you.