I keep seeing him there, moaning under my beautiful, sad-eyed friend.
See them floating and writhing,
See the pain and excitement in his eyes,
See the questions.
What does all this mean, now?
Probably nothing.
And he wrote a pretty poem eulogizing our relationship,
Telling of his hardships and how he always wanted to tell me.
Using imagery and a too-long extended metaphor.
I wanted to call and tell him about how I'd learned to spell "tulips,"
because he'd made the same mistake I did – making it two words:
Two lips.
His did a lot of lying.
Last night, even in my dreams, I just kept seeing him there,
Moaning under my beautiful, sad-eyed friend –
Heard the stories of heartbreak and uncertainty
echoing through several years of friendships and our own hardships.
And I kept picturing how I'd hit him –
carry the punch right through his jaw
for maximum effect.
How good and right and strong the bruises would feel
as the blood welled up under the skin on my knuckles.
But I won't ever do that.
So I won't ever forget it.
He's always going to be there.
Moaning under my beautiful, sad-eyed friend.
Right out where I can see them.