So if the small whisper in the back of my mind,
the one I ignore and cover in notes of jazz and maybe the acoustics of guitars that I will never know how to play
the small trinket,
the little locket with a hidden picture buried at the bottom of the jewelry box--

if the unrelenting suspicion is true. If we maybe live this, and then there is nothing to greet us on the other side,

does my whole being collapse.

I want to lie down in the grass, and strike up a conversation with the most unlikely of people, because oh,
how brilliantly unlikely,
to have met you at this time, now.

I don't know what the fight was about, or why,
you cannot open your eye in the morning without taking your fingers and prying it open.

I don't know why you are fifteen, and seeking some kind of love in the arms of a boy-man who does not know what it could mean for your tiny body and mind to have a baby boy the same age as your little brother.

You and your glasses and plaid shirt, a watch from Walmart and a cigarette between your teeth, you are
fascinating to me.

So the photograph trapped and dusty and whining like a teapot, the steam burning my forearm.
I am you and you are me, and this is beautiful and painful and
all I know is that if there is something more and if there is nothing more;

You and we and us are amazing and valuable and precious and thank you so much for letting me have the privilege of meeting you. And I am so sorry for any pain and lack of love this world has given you.

I am sorry. Forgive me and us.