Classic...

You loved the classics, always the classics.

Your taste was more old school than new philosophy.

You rocked suede Nike’s over Jordans and Kangols over fitteds.

Both grown man and lost boy you loved comics for the super heroes.

I admit, I am not well versed in the tragedy of battles between good and evil fought in the block-like picture frames of epic childhood reads but I’m all too familiar with wars fought in the block-like picture frames of New York project windows.

I’m well aware that big secrets can be held in small places like demons in closed fists. They may be hidden for short periods of time at best but eventually they are found out. The truth will set you free, right?

But, you have to cut your pride and rip open your hands if you seek the gift of deliverance in your palms so I have been trying to convince myself that your aim was just a little off.

A little north of accurate.

A little south of sanity.

No hero is without moments of madness and no villain

is without someone who still believes in their humanity.

Understand that neither are above restitution for mistakes made, even when no one is watching, besides, any Hero is a villain to whoever is on the other side of the argument.

When our weapons are picked as hastily as our battles how can we hope for anything other than white flags stained all red hues of betrayal and regret?

It is with a heavy heart that I mourn you; that I revisit places we went; y hat I hold on to things you shared with me; that I wonder what could’ve made Thor’s hammer more alluring than The Flash’s speedy getaway?

Why didn’t you run?

You knew you had a place here.

You had arms to collapse around you here,

Droves of ears to listen,

musical family laughter to sooth the beast inside you,

the promise of new beginnings.

You had peace here.

I’m not prepared to lay you to rest on paper.

I won’t bury your memory between wooden book ends

nailed securely enough to hide a broken heart.

Every casket holds a story that has already been told from beginning to end but I signed on for more chapters than this.

You said you’d always be a page poet,

I would’ve preferred a sonnet, a sestina or villanelle as your last pen to paper promise. Anything but that simple apology, anything but “I’m sorry” freckled with fear and loathing.

This type of lament has no talent for mending.

It just holds the wound open to cradle those of us left who continue to crave the sound of your voice throughout the day; who now concede to find it in unfulfilling places like radio interviews and saved voicemails. Pieces of you that stutter your distinctive cadence as I play them over and over again fighting not to forget the tone of your laughter or the note of sincerity in your voice when you brought up the prospect of a life together back home.

A story we’d write as we happened…

an epic read…

a classic.