Our cats are still here.
They still sit in your recliner chair, and fight,
and sleep, and Autumn still attacks Sammy for no reason.
Im still watching the US Open. By myself.
Roger Federer lost in a huge upset the other day,
and Nadal won in an epic match that didnt end until 230 in the morning.
I actually reached over to my phone to text or call you.
"DID YOU SEE THAT MATCH, BOO?"
Then I remembered.
I remembered what I have never forgotten.
I can't call you or text you ever again.
Your lucky rally monkey sits in a mug on top of my office desk.
The mug says "Coffee was God's Plan."
You would have cracked up at that.
So many things still remain.
But you ...
you only exist in shadows,
in breaths and Penske trucks and pieces of music.
You stop by in a laugh or a moment or memory,
faded as it may be.
Why is death so cruel?
Why do I only get to connect with you
in this strange and undefined and vague way,
never quite knowing,
if any of it is real?
It's been seven years.
I want to sit with you,
and drink hot chocolate,
I want to hear you speak.
I want to hear your cadence.
I want to talk politics.
I want you to phone bank with me for the next Democratic candidate.
I want you to teach me more about tennis, and American history, and science.
I want to hear you speak in medical terms, and have no idea what you are talking about.
I miss my friend.
We were friends before we were anything more.
Our friendship was so strong and beautiful and took a long time of building.
We talked and talked and talked.
This empty space,
where you once were -
Im not sure what to do with it.
It can never be filled.
it just remains there,
this big gaping hole.
I wish I could call you up,
and go get a cup of coffee.
Or a root beer.
I could live with this death thing,
so much easier,
if once every few months,
I was allowed to come see you,
wherever you are,
and just grab some coffee and talk.
you are energy,
pieces and fragments of the universe,
and earth's night sky and wind.
How do you have coffee with the wind?
I miss my friend.
So very much.
And it stings,
where your laugh should be.
where your voice should linger.
The coffee tastes bitter,
and I'm going home.
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